Lost Lamb Returning
by Memento Mori
Summary: Death Eater no more, Severus Snape must now face his demons before they destroy him and everything he cares about. Yet can he deal with the memories that now plague him? Prequel to In the Ground to be Laid. *See Author's Note*
1. Poety and Prologue

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Disclaimer: All the characters in this story ((with the exception of a few that may appear in later chapters)) are property of JKR and ONLY JKR. The abovementioned originals and the following poem exerpt, however, are mine.

*A/N*: You may notice a title change here. This used to be_ In the Ground to be Laid_, but I changed the title and I have taken chapters 8-11 and made them into an entirely seperate fic, a sequel to this one. I will be deleating all reviews from this one that I can and moving them over to _In the Ground to be Laid_. I know this may be confusing for some, but trust me, I know what I'm doing....I hope. SO, if you're following this story, further updates will be on that fic, not this one. Thank you.

Lost Lamb Returning

-MM-

~*~

__

Bring me a shovel, bring me a spade,

Let the dead remain dead, in the ground to be laid.

__

I live with remembrence, with the people I've slain,

That's the cost of ambition, the price of my gain.

__

They hold back from me peace, until vengence they reap,

Only then will their terror cease haunting my sleep.

__

So bring me a shovel, bring me a spade,

Let the dead remain dead, in the ground to be laid.

~*~

_Gods, what had he DONE?_

He remembered bolting, tearing through the bodies, the cruel laughter, the hands, robes, hoods, masks. He remembered the outraged shouts as he fled, felt the world dissolved around him as he willed himself out, out, OUT. He didn't care where he ended up or who found him there as long as it wasn't _them_.

He remembered the screams, tasting the terror in the air. He remembered the wail of a child as she was separated from her parents. He remembered the silky voice offering her what they all knew she could not understand.

_Choose_._ You shall either see your parents again and return home where this will be nothing more than a dream, or_..._well, we shall see_._ Choose_.

He remembered the all too familiar bottles arranged before her. He remembered the horrible cries that had followed, then the awful silence. He remembered too much, more than he ever wanted to see or hear or feel again. He remembered things he tried to scour from his mind. Nothing he remembered could tell him what to do now.

But his legs remembered what his mind did not.

His breath came in shallow gasps, every lungful of air a torturous ache and struggle. He clutched his burning arm to his chest in a futile attempt to either ease the pain or hide what lay beneath his voluminous sleeve. Cold stung his face and lungs, nearly paralyzed him with the pain that came with every breath as his long hair whipped in his face and eyes. His chest ached as he pounded his way through the crowded streets, ignoring venomous looks from passerby as he shoved them out of his path. He ran until he thought his heart would burst and his legs give out from under him completely. He ran for fear of what might catch up to him when he stopped.

He was vaguely aware of his own voice mumbling the words that would take him away, far away, but he barely noticed the sudden wrenching as the world disappeared around him only to return again in a different setting.

The floor was no longer uneven cement and stone but had instead turned into smooth floorboards. The abrupt change caused him to lose his footing and stumble; he threw his hand out to catch himself, knowing it was foolish as there was nothing solid to catch himself on.

Surprisingly, it was someone who caught him.

"Easy there, boy." The voice was hard and grating, but not cruel, not harsh like the one that still echoed through his head.

_Choose and drink, my little flower_._ Choose, child_. _What's the worst that can happen? Are you so afraid of death?_

Except it wasn't death that was being offered. Not a clean one, at least. He sobbed for air as his eyes cleared enough for him to look around. As soon as he did the movement of his head forced him to shut them again from the pain.

"Help me," he pleaded, his voice no more than a dry whisper. "Please. Help me. Ministry, call the Ministry. I need to speak with them. I _must_."

"Calm down, lad. What's the problem?"

"Death Eaters. Please, find them! Find someone- anyone! I don't care who- Ministry-"

"You're talking nonsense, lad. What's gotten into you?"

He felt the strange grip on his hand tighten and tried to pull away before the stranger could see- "Volde-"

"What the hell?" He felt the sleeves of his left arm shoved back and fingers like burning snow touch his skin. He screamed and tried to wrench away, but he was too weak, too weak. He opened his eyes to catch a flurry of glimpses, a piercing blue eye, a swirl of robes, a face twisted with hate and disgust and finally, the smooth floorboards rushing up to meet him and take him into darkness.


	2. Confessions

"Who is he?" More voices again.

A snort. "Damned if I know. Rushed in here not ten minutes ago blathering about Death Eaters and You-Know-Who. Told me to get someone from the Ministry here immediately."

"You have no idea who he is or where he came from?" The voices were multiplying, the words piercing the dark shield around his consciousness and slamming themselves around the inside of his skull.

"Not his name, but...look at his arm." There was the sound of rustling cloth and cool air hit the inside of his arm.

"What's going on he- oh." A new voice joined the other two, this one oddly familiar.

"You know him, Albus?" The first rough, gravelly voice again.

"Hm...I believe I may. Can you wake him up?"

Suddenly, he was startled out his of his half conscious state by a shock of cold water hitting him full in the face. He tried to sit up but groaned as the pain in his head forced him back down before he rose more than half an inch. He struggled to open his eyes.

"C'mon, up with ye!" A stinging slap to the face brought him fully awake, the sheet of water on his skin intensifying the blow tenfold.

"Easy, Alastor." It was that familiar voice again.

"Dammit, Albus, he's got the Mark! He's one of them, _don't_ tell me to go easy."

Slowly, he opened his eyes, wincing as the light hit them. Blurred shapes came slowly into focus. First, a wild eyed man who's glare hit him with more intensity than the cold water had. Behind him stood another man, tall and thin, clutching his wand with nervous fingers. And kneeling on the floor beside him, leaning over him in a manner that could only be called concerned, was a face as familiar as the voice he had heard. "Professor-"

Albus Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully as he regarded the young man on the floor.

"Hello, Severus."

***

"You know this boy, Albus?" the first man growled.

"Yes, quite well, actually. Used to be a student." There was distracted pain in his voice. "Severus Snape."

"Let me guess, Slytherin." The contempt in the voice was withering, but it was the hurt and soft accusations in Dumbledore's eyes that made Snape cringe.

"Professor." He paused, feeling his voice catch in his throat. What was he doing? He was a Death Eater, powerful, merciless, young..._too young_. "Professor, I'm sorry- I failed you again-" He was cut off abruptly by the wild eyed man.

"Shut yer gob," he hissed, leaning down low so he could meet Snape's eyes. "You ain't worthy of a damn thing this man's got to say, hear me?" A hand wound slowly around his throat. "I should just strangle you here and now, you little snake. Wouldn't be any great loss, one of your kind."

Snape whimpered as the hand constricted around his throat. He clutched desperately at the unyielding flesh as the world swam before his eyes.

"Alastor Moody!"

Dumbledore's voice seemed to bring the man back to his senses. He let go Snape's throat and stood, still glaring. The nervous looking man behind him stepped forward and spoke for the first time.

"You know we've got to do something, Albus. He _is_ a Death Eater after all. The mark on his arm proves that."

"I do indeed." Albus turned his eyes back to Snape. "Yet he came here for a reason, did you not, Severus?"

Snape nodded. The memories, they all came back full force. The child's wailing, her mother's screaming, the cold, silky voice, the choice that was no choice at all but was instead two kinds of death bottled up by his own hand. The laughter. The silence.

"She's dead." Snape buried his head in his hands and sobbed. "She's dead, Professor, and it's my fault. He told her she could chose, that they would let her go back home with her parents, set them all free but she had to chose. She was only seven, Professor, too young to know that it was all a game, that she could only lose. Two bottles, two deaths. She chose, they made sure she chose _wrong_. She died, it was all my fault she died. I brewed those potions myself when HE asked me to." He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to blot out the sight that was ingrained into his mind. "I'm sorry, oh, God I'm so sorry. It wasn't quick."

Someone grasped his shoulder, shook him roughly. Dumbledore was still looking at him, those blue eyes hiding an infinite sadness. Moody was still shaking him. Something inside him broke. He looked up at Dumbledore, heedless of Moody's hand on his shoulder.

"The Kiss," he whispered, tears flowing from his dark eyes. The Kiss. Please, God, I can't live with this, I can't live with the memories. Please, Professor, it's all I deserve. Please-"

"Albus-" The nervous looking man was shifting his weight from one foot to the other, toying with his wand. "We have to do _something_. But God, he's just a _boy_. I don't know-"

"He just admitted to the fact that he helped kill an innocent girl, Jordon, and you can bet he's done a lot more than that. I say we just throw him in Azkaban." Snape shuddered at the cold words.

"This true, boy?" the nervous man asked sharply. Snape could only nod dumbly.

"There, you have it from the boy hisself. What more do you want? See if he's got names and throw him to the Dementors."

Dumbledore raised a single hand. "Let's not hurry into doing something drastic," he said. "Perhaps this is a case that we should take some time over..."

"Don't let your sentimentality get the better of you, Albus," Moody growled, but Jordon interrupted.

"Albus may be right," he cautioned. "This is a highly unusual case. A young boy with the Dark Mark on his arm comes running in here ready to confess and begs for the Dementor's Kiss?" He shook his head. "Although I'm inclined to agree with Moody as well. There's so much in the works right now that there's little time to spare for anyone. The boy can wait until we have more time to review his case." Moody snorted.

"Fine, but he can wait in Azkaban. On yer feet." Moody hauled Snape unceremoniously from his position on the floor onto his less than steady legs and shoved him towards a wall. He reached out reflexively to keep himself from crashing into the wall with his hands. As it was, the impact knocked the breath out of him. He glanced back: Dumbledore was deep in conference with the man Moody had called Jordon.

"Sniveling coward," Moody hissed in his ear. Snape shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. "Dumbledore seems to trust you more than I'd give you credit for but I'll go along with it. This time." He reached back and grabbed a handful of Snape's shoulder length hair, right at the nape of his neck, and yanked his head back so far Snape thought he would gag. Tears of pain and fear stood out in his eyes as Moody pressed the tip of his wand against his taunt throat. "You're nothing but a damned snake. If you try one damned thing, I swear I'll make sure that you won't remember a life without pain. The word 'crucio' will be the first and last thing you hear before you die."

Snape nodded as best he could considering his position, and Moody let him go. He wrapped his thin arms around himself and huddled closer to the wall, fighting back tears and nausea. The girl's screams still echoed in his ears along with that cold, cold voice-

Dumbledore finished his conversation with Jordon, cast a glance at Moody and nodded. Snape felt his arm crushed in the man's grip as he was dragged away. He cast one final, desperate look back at Dumbledore, but the blue eyes told him nothing.


	3. Trials

Albus Dumbledore sat at his place, a place that had grown too familiar for his liking over the years. He stared without seeing at the stone chair, thick with its enchanted chains. It sat empty now, but it wouldn't remain that way for long. He carefully hid a sigh and tried to ease the cold knot that had settled in his stomach when he received the letter that brought him here. That had been two days ago.

Dumbledore tried not to dwell on how long it had been since he had seen the young man- someone he had certainly not expected to see again in his lifetime. Still, the haunted black gaze Snape had cast his way as he was dragged off with Moody stayed with him and had done so for the past three months.

Three months.

He stifled yet another sigh, this one of sorrow. He had fully anticipating it being only a matter of days before he would be able to turn his attentions to the unfortunate Snape, a week at most. But Jordon was right, there was little enough time to spare for anything not on the schedule. Everyone was busy working on ways to foil Voldemort's schemes and trying to hunt him down; then there had been reporting of Death Eater appearances that had needed immediate Ministry attentions. All in all it had been a very rough and trying three months, and Dumbledore hadn't been able to steal a single moment to think about anything that didn't have the potential to become a catastrophe. And unfortunately, Severus Snape was not on that list.

Moody sat to his left, looking as he always did. That was to say, unpleasant. The scowl that had become a permanent part of him was certainly in evidence now as they waited for the doors to open.

When they did, Dumbledore had to make a conscious effort to keep from crying out in sheer dismay. _Oh, Severus,_ he thought mournfully, _I've failed you far more than you've ever failed me_._ How could I forget about you, leave you to waste away to this?_

Flanked by two dementors, the figure who stumbled into the room bore little resemblance to the proud young man Albus remembered from years ago at Hogwarts. While the Severus Snape he remembered always carried himself with pride and a coolness towards the world that bordered on arrogance, this boy looked fearful and small. It cut Dumbledore to the quick to see the same intelligent, fastidious student from years ago reduced to the state he was in now.

For some reason, the dementors released their grips on his arms when they passed the threshold to the chamber. Snape grasped his pitiful robes around himself tightly, his arms thin and trembling. His shoulders were hunched and he shrunk back into himself as if hiding from the hostile glares he received from all sides. His long black hair had grown even longer during his imprisonment and it hung now in greasy strands around his face. Where he had been lean before he was now skeletal, his face sunken and painfully thin. As Dumbledore watched, Snape flinched as a wizard to his left cursed and spat on his face.

Without a word, two wizards sat him down in the stone chair, prying his bony fingers from the folds of his robes to set them on the stone slabs. Immediately the enchanted chains rose and snaked around his arms, legs and neck. Dumbledore saw Snape's pupils dilate with fear and heard his tiny whimper as the chains bit tighter. The cold in his stomach grew stronger.

"Severus Snape." Bartemius Crouch cleared his throat as he read from the parchment on his desk. "You are on trial for the crimes of practicing the Dark Arts in league with You- with Voldemort. Your crimes include the murder and torture of both wizards and Muggles alike, including the use of the Unforgivable Curses. Now," he cleared his throat again as Snape looked at him in utter terror. "Some of us," he cast a glance at where Moody was sitting, glaring daggers at Snape. "Some of us would like nothing better than for you to be given the dementors without a second thought." Something about his tone indicated that _he_ would not object to such a punishment. "However, there are others who would speak on your behalf and vouch for you as- as someone who can be trusted." He resumed his seat with a nod to Dumbledore. "As you will, Albus."

"Thank you." Dumbledore rose to his feet and gazed around the chamber, coming at last to rest upon the frightened figure of Severus Snape. "I have known Snape for a long time," he said levelly. "I knew him when he was but a first year at Hogwarts and was there when he was Sorted into Slytherin." He gazed over his glasses at the wizards and witches who began to murmur. "Now I know Slytherin has the rather dubious reputation of being the house to produce the most Death Eaters than any other. However," his bright blue eyes sharpened. "That does not mean the house does yet hold any honor at all."

"Yes, but he's got the Mark!" someone shouted from the rows of seats.

"This is true. And he has, in fact, participated in many of the Dark Arts. All the accusations leveled at him are completely true." Dumbledore waited until the effect his words had died down. "But that is not the issue at hand. Severus came to one of my colleagues nearly three months ago." His voice caught as he thought about how long it had been since Severus had been cast into Azkaban. "He came confessing his crimes and begging for the Dementor's Kiss." He saw Snape tremble minutely. "Some were willing to oblige him. But let us think. Why would a Death Eater come running, at the risk of Voldemort's wrath, to confess his crimes and beg for the most horrible penalty imaginable?"

"He's a spy, that's why!" that same voice called out.

Dumbledore was unruffled. "Then why ask for the Kiss?" he queried. "It was too large a risk for a spy. No, the only conclusion I can draw is that he was sincere in his confessions as well as in his willingness to die. More than die." He saw Snape shiver again. He considered the young man with a sorrowful expression then turned to his colleagues. "Rather than request that the entire assemblage leave, would anyone here object to my having a few words alone with him under the privacy of a soundproofing charm?"

"Certainly whatever you have to say to him, Albus, can be said in front of everyone here?" Bartemius Crouch scowled.

"Come off it, Barty," Moody snapped. "You're just worried he's going to do something the public won't like, make the Ministry look bad." He glanced at Dumbledore. "Albus is a good man, even if I can't say the same for that piece of filth sitting before us. I have no objections."

Bartemius looked around at the other gathered wizards, none of whom protested. He looked as if he were going to say something more, then shook his head. "Fine. Take as much time as you need."

"Thank you. I shouldn't be long." Dumbledore stepped down from behind the long desk and approached the interrogation chair. He drew his wand and murmured the words of the soundproofing charm. Immediately, an opaque wall of silence sprung up between him and the rest of the chamber.

As Dumbledore approached the chair, Severus shuddered. When he reached out to touch the young man's hand, he whimpered. He seemed hardly to know who Dumbledore was.

_Forgive me, boy,_ he thought to himself as he took in Snape's thin, battered form. _I swear I never meant to forget about you_._ On my soul, I swear_.

"Severus?" he asked softly. "Severus, it's me. Professor Dumbledore. Are you listening to me, Severus?" He made it a point to say his name several times to make certain his words got through. But the look in Snape's eyes were empty...so empty.

_What have they done to you? What's happened to you in there? And you so young, barely twenty_._ Too young_._ Ah, forgive me, this was never meant to happen_.

"P-professor?" Snape turned his head slowly, gazing wondrously at Dumbledore. "Is that you?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Severus, will you talk to me? Will you answer my questions?"

"Moody came to see me," Snape mumbled, his eyes wandering off again. "He asked me questions, too."

"Moody?" Dumbledore's voice grew sharp. He immediately regretted it as Snape cringed.

"I'll answer your questions," he said quickly, his voice down to a whisper. "I'll try, I promise. Just don't do what he did. Don't do what Mood-"

"Calm down, Severus." Dumbledore put his hand on Snape's arm again, but took it off quickly as Snape winced and tried to pull away, even though the chains held his arms fast. "I'm not going to hurt you." He was tempted to ask about Alastor's visit, but there was time for that later. There were more important matters to get through now. "Severus, why did you come back?"

"Because she died," he answered simply. His eyes, eyes that once shone bright with intelligence were dull and clouded.

"Who died, Severus?"

"The little girl. She was only six." A tremor ran through Snape's thin body. "He had me brew the potions, and I did. Two of them. Hemlock and-" He broke off with a shake of his head.

"Do you want to die, Severus?" Dumbledore studied him calmly over his half-moon spectacles.

"No." The answer was so plainly honest it hurt. "I want to live. But I don't deserve to. And I _don't_ want to go back. I'll never go back, they can't make me."

"Severus, when did Moody come to see you? What did he ask you?"

Snape looked at him fearfully, confused at the sudden change of subject. "Is that one of your questions?"

Dumbledore sighed and shook his head. "Perhaps later, Severus. Not now." He banished the soundproofing wall and regained his place beside Moody. He turned to face Crouch. "The boy is worthy of a second chance. He wants to live, but he told me he doesn't deserve to." A snort from Moody that sounded suspiciously like: "damn right."

"However," Dumbledore continued smoothly, "he also said that he would rather die than go back." He turned now to face the assembled group of witches and wizards. "While his past actions may seem unforgettable and unforgivable, his actions now speak even louder. This boy ran willingly from Voldemort's ranks and came to the Ministry. This boy, barely twenty years old, came begging for death for his crimes." He gazed around sternly. "This boy, who so desperately wants to live, is willing to die rather than go back to what he was. That, ladies and gentlemen, is enough for me to believe that there is yet some good left in him. Perhaps, if we give him the opportunity, he will show himself worthy of a second chance."

"Yes, but Dumbledore, who would be willing to _give_ him that chance?" Bartemius asked.

Dumbledore looked at him, his blue eyes calm. "I would."

A murmur swept through the crowd that swiftly grew to a dull roar. Bartemius shouted for calm over the noise. When silence reigned again over the chamber, he asked, "Certainly you aren't serious?"

"Of course I am."

"But- at Hogwarts? Albus- is that wise?"

"Severus was once the greatest potions mind that ever came through the school. It was for that reason Voldemort offered him a position in his ranks."

"Which is exactly why you shouldn't be offering him one in yours," Moody interrupted. "He was a Death Eater, Albus. Probably still is. Who's gonna vouch for him when all hell breaks lose?"

"I will." Though his eyes remained serene, it was obvious the Hogwarts Headmaster was not going to take no for an answer.

Bartemius threw up his hands in defeat. "You were never one to argue with, Dumbledore."

"Thank you," Albus replied mildly.

"But I'm warning you. This is it. The first sign of trouble and he's back in Azkaban where he belongs."

"Naturally."

Bartemius motioned tiredly and the chains fell from Severus' limbs. Once free, Snape made no motion to move. The two wizards who had held him down now moved to help him to his feet.

"Wait."

The wizards froze. Moody stood, still glaring at Snape. "If he's really turned his colors back, he won't object to giving names."

Snape looked at him shakily. "I- I only have one," he admitted. "The one who brought me to Voldemort in the first place." Moody waited. "Lucius Malfoy."

"No good," Moody mumbled to Dumbledore as the crowd buzzed. "We've been trying to get our hands on that greasy bastard ever since this thing started. We can't get anything to stick."

Dumbledore nodded as he rose to go. As he passed the interrogation chair, Snape reached out a hand to stop him.

"P-professor?"

Dumbledore turned right in time to catch the young man as he collapsed.

As Snape entered the huge courtroom chamber, the dementors released his arms. He clutched his robes, tattered as they were, as tight as he could. The cold from both the prison and the dementors' touch chilled him to the core of his bones.

The long walk to the chair was pure hell as he felt the burning gaze of everyone present burn into his back. But even that burning couldn't drive the cold from his bones. He hung his head and refused to look up, even as he felt he spittle from some angry wizard hit his cheek and run down into his robes.

He vaguely remembered them forcing him down into the chair as the chains bit into his flesh, but he couldn't make out the words that followed, could only stare blankly at the witches and wizards before him. He thought he heard Dumbledore's voice once or twice, but couldn't be certain. The next thing he knew, Dumbledore was standing before him, asking him questions. He answered them blankly, automatically, remembering when a month before, Moody had done the same thing. He tried to block that memory from his mind.

When Dumbledore was through, Snape lapsed back into the semi-conscious state he had been in since he arrived. He heard voices again but not the words. Only when he felt the chains slip from his body did he return to the realm of the fully living. Hands helped him to stand again, but for some reason, his legs didn't want to support him. A familiar dizziness washed over him, and as Dumbledore passed, he did the only thing he could think of. "P-professor-" Then the darkness caught up with him again.

That had been just hours ago. He now sat with Dumbledore on the train back to Hogwarts, curled up on one of the seats and clutching his knees to his chest. Every once in a while, he glanced up at Dumbledore. The Headmaster was watching him calmly.

"Now what?" he asked, hating the sound of his own weak voice.

"Now we go back to the castle and get you cleaned up, fed and rested."

"Okay." Snape knew he was going to have to talk about his time as a Death Eater sooner or later. "Professor?"

"Yes, Severus?" Dumbledore looked over his glasses at his former student.

"I'm so sorry."

Before Snape could blink, Dumbledore was beside him, pushing a strand of filthy black hair out of his eyes.

"No, Severus, I should be the one who's sorry." Snape looked at him in a amazement. Dumbledore's eyes were no longer bright or calm, they were filled instead with sadness and mourning. "I should never have let them take you to Azkaban, I should have demanded that you have your trial immediately. All else failing, I should never have forgotten about you. I never meant to leave you in there, Severus. Not for that long. If I had remembered-"

Snape turned his eyes away and stared at the seat cushion. He shivered as he remembered the cold stone and the colder touch of those scabbed hands. Memories of darkness invaded his mind, of solitude and despair. He wanted to block his ears to the horrible screams, but found they were all in his head. His eyes grew hot as he rubbed at the fitfully with the back of his sickly hand. "Maybe I should have died," he whispered, then turned to bury his head in Dumbledore's shoulder as he wept.

***

Hogwarts was exactly as Snape remembered it. Tall and imposing, it also spoke of comfort and home. Snape stared at it as they traversed the lake, employing the help of the giant squid to push their boat across.

When they arrived, Dumbledore hurried him through the Great Hall past the inquiring eyes of the teachers who remained at the castle over the summer holidays.

Snape allowed himself to be lead to the washroom, following Dumbledore obediently. It seemed easier than trying to figure anything out for himself just then. While Dumbledore filled the enormous bathtub with hot, frothy water, he stripped himself of his dirty, torn robes. Slowly, he eased himself into the steaming water up to his chin and lay back against the marble side. For the first time in months, he felt the cold beginning to seep away from his bones. He closed his eyes.

"I have things to attend to, Severus," Dumbledore told him. "I'll return shortly with fresh robes and take you to get something to eat. Will you be alright by yourself while I'm gone?"

Snape nodded without opening his eyes. Maybe he should just let himself slip under the surface of the water. No one would care otherwise, except maybe Dumbledore. But he had more important things to worry about than one wayward young man. An ex-Death Eater at that. It wouldn't take long, a quick death- not like that little girl's had been. Just a few moments under the water and he would never have to hear her screams again.

Dumbledore seemed to read his mind. As he reached the doorway, he turned.

"And Severus," he said. "I went through a lot of trouble to get you here alive. Don't let my efforts be in vain." The door shut.

_Of course not,_ Snape thought. _I've disappointed you enough already, Professor_._ Then again, how would it make any difference if I did it one more time? Especially if it was the LAST time_. He sighed and leaned his head back to wet his hair. No, Dumbledore was right. The least Snape could do was prove the Headmaster correct in his judgments.

"Albus?" A nervous head poked itself around the door to his office.

"Ah, yes. Minerva. Do come in. Care for tea?" Dumbledore beckoned her inside and handed her a steaming cup of tea. She took it with a small smile.

"Well?"

"He's here."

"Here?" Professor Minerva McGonagall nearly spilled her tea as she stood up. "Albus, are you certain you know what you're doing? I know he was a former student- but God! He was- possibly IS- a Death Eater!"

"Sit down, Minerva." Dumbledore's voice grew sharp. She sat. He took a sip of tea before continuing. "Now, I just spent the last five hours trying to convince a dozen Aurors to let me have Snape in the first place. They don't believe he's innocent either." He held up a hand as McGonagall opened her mouth to speak. "I let that boy sit in Azkaban for three months, Minerva. _Three months_, and all because I forgot about him. That alone should be reason enough for a second chance. But there's more. He came to us asking for the Kiss. I can't see any reason for him to do that if he was still working under Voldemort's orders."

McGonagall took several deep breaths as she toyed with her teacup. "I suppose- I suppose you're right, Albus. As always."

"You're starting to sound like Barty Crouch." She snorted in a most un-ladylike manner.

"The day I become like him is the day I give up Transfigurations for Divinations," she snipped. She drained the rest of her tea and poured herself another cup, this time adding a heavy dose of something poured from a flask hidden in her robes.

Dumbledore sniffed the air and looked at her, blue eyes twinkling. "Apple brandy, Minerva? I was wondering why my bottle was disappearing so fast."

"It's been a long day. Where is he now?"

"Washing up." Dumbledore's face darkened for a moment. "You should have seen him, Minerva. I know he's never looked healthy, but today-" He shook his head sadly. "Three months."

"It's not all your fault, Albus. There's so much to be done. You can't keep track of everything."

"But I should have been able to keep track of _this_!"

They both jumped in surprise as the teacup flew across the room and shattered on the wall, soaking the desk with tea. Dumbledore mumbled a sheepish apology as he drew his wand. "_Reparo_."

"You need to rest," McGonagall said, sternly. "You've been taking too much on yourself, the strain is beginning to show. Let me take care of Severus-" She sighed as he shook his head. "Fine. At least let me come with you, then."

Dumbledore laughed. "What, Minerva, you don't think I can defend myself against a sick, half starved boy?" He stood, sending the tea tray whisking back to its place on the shelf. "Let's go, then. I don't want the boy to kill himself while I'm gone."

When they arrived at the washroom, Dumbledore thought for a single, horrifying moment that Snape had gone and done just that.

His back was turned as he entered (McGonagall choosing primly to remain outside until Dumbledore made certain Snape was decent) and all Dumbledore could see was black hair and reddish tendrils staining the water. As he got closer, he realized Snape was clutching at his wrist.

_Oh God, no_

He rushed over, heedless of the now-cold water soaking his robes, fully expecting to see the water stained red with Severus' lifeblood, a razor sitting beside him on the marble floor.

Instead, what he found nearly broke his heart.

Snape looked up at him, his eyes so full of sorrow they almost drove Dumbledore to weep. "It won't come off," he half sobbed. "I can't get it off."

He clutched his left wrist in his other hand, both stained with blood. Long gouges ran down his wrist where he had tried first to scrub, then claw the Dark Mark from his skin. The hideous skull still jeered up at Dumbledore from beneath the bloodstains.

Without a word, Dumbledore lifted Snape from the water. He weighed surprisingly little for such a tall figure. Though more than thrice Severus' age, Dumbledore carried the young man easily and wrapped him in a huge, soft towel.

"I tried," Snape whispered through his tears. "I tried. I didn't want them to think you were wrong about me. I tried, I'm so sorry. I tried."

"Shh." Dumbledore held the young man close, trying to soothe away his tears, his pain. "Minerva?" he called. "Would you please go and fetch Madam Pomfrey?" McGonagall took one look at Snape's arm and her eyes widened. She nodded and rushed out.

How long Dumbledore sat there cradling Snape in his arms, he never knew. Eventually McGonagall returned with Madam Pomfrey but by that time the bleeding had stopped and Snape was sleeping fitfully. Together they all three brought him up to the Hospital Wing where Dumbledore and McGonagall left Pomfrey to take care of him with explicit instructions to come find either of them when he woke up.

"It may have been kinder to have him killed outright," McGonagall said softly as they made their way back to Dumbledore's office.

"Perhaps," was all Dumbledore could say as he looked at the curtained hospital bed. "We shall see in time."


	4. Remembrances

_Screams rent the air, turning what should have been just another peaceful night into a scene from a demon's nightmare_._ Voices were everywhere, rising over the roar and crackle of the flames_._ Tongues of fire reared from the inferno, licking their way upwards as if trying to burn out the stars themselves_.

__

The heat of the flames seared away life and boiled the very air as voices rose and fell._ There was a glimpse of hoods, masks, eyes, hands_._ A voice slithered out of the darkness, crawling over the bodies of the dead and winding itself around the burning wreckage_._ People were running, but there was nowhere to go_._ The snake voice caught up with every one of them_._ It coiled around the mind and wrapped sanity and life in its green coils, its hiss was the last thing they heard_.

__

Laughter began to take the place of the screams- the fire raged on, the fleeing figures became dancing savages._ The carnage had turned into a celebration of the macabre_.

__

The voice came ever closer.

***

Snape awoke with a start. For a moment, he panicked, forgetting where he was. He relaxed when he saw the familiar curtains around the bed, felt the clean sheets and smelled the scent of medicine and soap. Something still bothered him, though. There was a nagging thought in the back of his mind, but when he tried to bring it forward it vanished like the remnants of a dream. All he caught was something about fire, about snakes. Then it was gone.

He swallowed and discovered his throat was dryer than three day bread. Quietly, not wanting to disturb anyone, he slipped out of the hospital bed, wincing as his feet hit the icy floor. He padded softly across the room, searching for some water. He bypassed three bottles of clear liquid; if his potions training had taught him one thing, it was that you _never_ drink from an unlabeled bottle.

He arrived at the bathroom and cupped his hands beneath the tap. As he drank, Snape happened to glance up at the mirror above the sink. His eyes widened as his hands gripped the edge of the porcelain, water and thirst forgotten.

While no one had ever called him handsome, Snape was now reduced to a sunken shade of his former self. His dark eyes were huge in his gaunt face, underscored by discolored markings from lack of sleep. Black greasy hair hung in in ragged strands, falling forward no matter how many times he tried to push it back. But his skin- his complexion had always been pallid, now it was bone white and sickly looking. The moonlight streamed in through a window, covering him with its pale blue cast until he looked into the reflection of a drowned man. Snape shuddered at the thought, remembering how close he had come just the day before.

He stood there, gazing at his sickly reflection until the sound of footsteps startled him out of his reverie. He froze, listening, as the footsteps faded away down the hall. He took one last glance at the mirror before opening the door and slipping back to the Hospital Wing.

As he climbed back into the bed, Snape was surprised to hear the footsteps again, this time coming unmistakably towards the room where he lay. He was also surprised to note that a second set of steps had joined the first. He froze as he heard the door open and quickly lay back, feigning sleep.

"What did you expect me to do, Minerva?" The unmistakable voice of Albus Dumbledore reached Snape's ears from behind the curtain. "Leave him in Azkaban? Give him what he wanted and let the dementors have him?" Snape heard McGonagall mumble something too low for him to hear, but Dumbledore cut her off. "It wasn't even what he really wanted, just what he thought he deserved. _That_ is what convinced me." He sighed in frustration. "Merlin's beard, there was good in that boy once, Minerva. You know that as well as I do. Some of that good must still remain if he came back."

"But, Dumbledore, surely you don't expect him to take up a position here? An ex-Death Eater in a teaching position? The students' parents-"

"I've dealt with the parents of students before," Dumbledore said calmly. "Severus possesses what is unarguably the finest skill with potions than anyone alive. They will understand."

"And if they don't?" But she let it drop.

Someone pushed aside the curtains surrounding the bed and Snape made himself go limp, slowing his breathing down to almost nothing. He felt a hand push a strand of hair away from his face and resisted the urge to open his eyes.

"Name of Merlin..." McGonagall breathed. "He looks as though he's been carried through hell on a thestral's back."

"You're not far wrong. Azkaban isn't much different than hell. He's only twenty, Minerva, and barely that. Don't tell me this boy isn't entitled to another chance."

"I know, I know. It's just...oh Albus, you _know_ how hard it is. You know how many people we've lost, how many friends we've seen die. It's just _hard_ knowing he was there on the other side the entire time, helping _them_."

"And how much of that was because he never had a chance on this one?" Dumbledore's voice was strained. "Admit it, Minerva. Severus was never really accepted anywhere he went, not even by other Slytherins. Not even by the teachers. Plus, there was simply nothing on this side for him, intellectually. Severus was put into Slytherin, remember? The house that prizes _ambition_. He needed to be challenged and Lucius knew that. So he offered him the greatest challenge of his life, the greatest opportunity to _learn_. It was Severus' one great weakness, and that's how Voldemort grows stronger, he feeds on people's weaknesses. But that doesn't excuse the treatment he got when he was here."

"I don't think I understand what you're talking about-"

"Yes you do, Minerva. Severus was hated here. He was hated by the other houses for being Slytherin, he was hated by his fellows for his talents and he was hated by the teachers for his intelligence. He intimidated everyone who knew him. So he shut people out, he tried to act like he didn't care about them, or what they thought. That just made things worse. When Lucius came to him it must have seemed a miracle to the boy to have someone offer him something like that when he'd been shunned and looked over for most of his life. To be someone who was _wanted,_ who was _useful_. He was talented, Minerva, much more so than anyone ever gave him credit for. And that's what drove him over the line. To _know_ you have talents, to _know_ you're intelligent and still be looked down on and undervalued- it's not easy. Lucius may have been the one to bring him over to Voldemort, but we were the ones who drove him to Lucius in the first place."

Snape fought the urge to sob as he lay unmoving in the dark, listening to Dumbledore's words. Everything he said was the truth, but what hurt was the realization that someone had been aware the entire time. If Dumbledore had known, then why hadn't he done something about it? If he had seen what was going on, why didn't he stop it?

"Yes...well-" He heard McGonagall sigh. "I suppose I don't have anything to say to that. I never really thought about it that way..."

"You should really take a step back and look at things from a different perspective, Minerva." Dumbledore's voice regained its jovial quality. "It can quite refreshing, as well as arevealing. Now-" Snape heard the click of Dumbledore's pocket watch. "It's gotten rather late, and if I recall there's a certain chocolate pudding downstairs that I feel I should get to know a little more intimately. Off to bed with you, Minerva."

Snape listened to the retreating footsteps and was about to open his eyes when he felt a cool hand on his brow.

"You don't have to pretend anymore, Severus," Dumbledore said. "You may sit up, if you like."

"Y-you knew I was awake?" he said haltingly, still trying to come to terms with Dumbledore's words to McGonagall.

"Of course I did. I used to pretend to be asleep all the time when I wanted to listen to other people talking. Of course, that was a long time ago. Although there _was_ the time I fooled my Muggle Studies teacher and nearly gave her a heart attack when I didn't 'wake up.' Thought I had gone and died in the middle of her class, poor dear. She was quite a woman, though, Professor Gr-"

"Professor?" Snape waited for a lull in Dumbledore's rambling, and when none came, he interrupted a little guiltily. "When you were talking to Professor McGonagall-" He trailed off, not knowing quite what to say.

"You want to know how I knew all of what I said and why I didn't do anything about it, don't you?" Snape nodded. Dumbledore's eyes grew solemn as he gazed at his former student. "Because I honestly never thought it would grow to the proportions that it did," he said. "I've seen that sort of thing a hundred times in my years as Headmaster, and in most cases it went away by the end of third year. You were different, and I couldn't figure out why. So I put it out of mind until you were gone, hoping the problem would disappear with time."

"You put it out of mind." Snape was surprised at the bitterness of his own voice. He tried to stop his next words, but they were out of his mouth before he could think.

"Like you put me out of mind for those three months in Azkaban."

Time seemed to freeze as neither man moved or spoke. An icy silence surrounded them both. Snape wanted to die, to melt into the sheets, to disappear. He couldn't believe he had just spoken those words to the man who had rescued him just days ago, who had saved him from death, or worse. He covered his face with his hands. "Professor- I'm sorry. Please, forgive me, I'm not myself right now."

Dumbledore looked at him with that same sad look in his eyes that Snape remembered from the time he Apparated to his side when he had run away from the Death Eaters. He shivered.

"I understand," was all he said, but Snape knew those two words meant more than just an acceptance of his apology. He could have killed himself, had he the chance. The only excuse he had for acting that way was he was still getting over his three months in hell. He stared at his hands, knowing he should say something, but unsure what it was. He remembered another time when he had been at such a profound loss for words, years ago, when he had first come to Hogwarts as a student.

***

Snape stared up at the ceiling of the Great Hall, bewitched by the magic he saw. Not the enchantment, of course. He'd seen magic like that since he was an infant and the ceiling above his crib had been magicked in a similar fashion. No, what he gazed now at with such rapt fascination was the storm the ceiling mimicked. Small bolts of lightning sparked between the towering cumulonimbus clouds, lighting the entire Hall with eerie flashes of light. He watched the huge clouds roil and churn until the ceiling looked like a mass of tangled gray cotton. Beautiful.

Suddenly, his wordless wonder was disrupted by a hard poke in the back. "Get moving," someone behind him growled. Snape jumped, startled by both the poke and the words. He realized that, much to his chagrin, the other first years had filed into a rough line before what appeared to be a stool with a very old, tattered hat. The Sorting Hat, of course. Severus was just one of many generations of Snapes that had attended Hogwarts, so he knew every detail there was the know, every nuance, every tradition. And, of course, he knew of the four Houses and their reputation. Severus was praying for Ravenclaw, but his father Silias was hoping he would be put into Slytherin, where every previous member of the Snape family had been sorted. Severus sighed as the song ended and the sorting began.

"Avers, Justin!" Gryffindor.

Then again, if he _did_ manage to get himself sorted into Ravenclaw, the tongue lashing he would receive from his father might just make it worth it to end up in Slytherin. As if it were _his_ fault where he was placed.

"Curtiss, Hal!" Gryffindor.

Of course, his blood was so purely Snape, it would be near impossible for the Sorting Hat to put him anywhere _except_ Slytherin. While Severus might not have harbored any ambition of his own, his long dead relatives had put more than enough in his blood to last a lifetime.

"Johnson, Julia!" Ravenclaw.

He was smart enough to be put into Ravenclaw, of course. But then again, his entire family was more than intelligent, so that really didn't mean a thing. Still...he shivered when he looked over at the Slytherin table.

"Malfoy, Lucius!" Slytherin.

Oh, _why_ was his name so far down towards the end of the list?

Finally: "Snape, Severus!"

_Ravenclaw, I'll do anything, just put me into Ravenclaw!_ Severus stepped forward and took a seat on the stool, placing the old Hat on his head. He cringed, waiting for the inevitable outcome.

"_Severus Snape_._ My, I've seen that name come and go quite a bit in my lifetime,_" the Sorting Hat chuckled in his head. "_Snape_._ Well, you're no coward, but Gryffindor is not the place for you_._ Neither is Hufflepuff, though you're no slacker, either_."

_Ravenclaw, please put me into Ravenclaw_._ Just not Slytherin!_

"_Ravenclaw, hm? You'd do well there, you know_._ But-_" Snape felt his heart sink. "_I'm afraid the choice will have to be-_ SLYTHERIN!" Just before Severus removed the hat, it whispered in his ear again. "_Don't let it bother you_._ You have the potential to achieve great things no matter what house you're in_."

_Great,_ Severus thought. _So why did you put me into Slytherin?_ He took the hat off and slunk over to the Slytherin table, his heart down somewhere in the vicinity of his shoes. At least his father would be pleased.

"How the hell did _you_ end up here?" a voice whispered in his ear as he sat down. Severus turned and saw the face of the boy who had poked him earlier. "I don't think there's enough ambition in you to overcome an anthill." He turned to talk with a thin Slytherin first year girl. "It just confirms what I've been suspecting all along," he told her, making sure his voice would carry to the other students at the table. "The Sorting Hat is getting senile. It's judgment's on the blink."

Unkind laughter swept the table as Severus felt his face go red. He gazed down at the table, but not before he noticed the one student at the table not laughing. Lucius Malfoy, the boy who had been sorted a few students before him, was watching him, oddly silent.

"Shut it, Kel," another Slytherin whispered fiercely. "Hagrid's watching."

Severus glanced over to where some of the other students were looking and his eyes widened. There was no physical way that "Hagrid" could be human. At least, not fully human. And true to the student's word, he was glaring straight at the Slytherin table, black eyes flashing. The table fell silent as the rest of the Sorting was completed.

Headmaster Albus Dumbledore stood and began his welcoming speech, but Severus' mind had wandered off again.

At least he would have good news to write home to his father about. 

The rest of the year proved to be no better than the first day. Severus, due to his bad start with the boy Kel, was shunned from every Slytherin circle. He had few friends and those that he did have were barely more than casual acquaintances. It didn't bother him much at first; he was a solitary boy by nature. After a while, though, it grew boring with no one to talk to. The teachers were no better. At the beginning of the second month, Severus had proved several of his teachers wrong and managed to produce a potion even better than the Professor in charge. Classes bored him, he could sleep through lectures and still pass exams with higher marks than any of his classmates. Teachers referred to him as "troublesome," "easily distracted" and "disrespectful." In short, they shunned him as much as any of his house fellows.

Once, Severus sought company elsewhere, namely a group of Gryffindors. He soon learned the error in _that_ and returned to his own house, more lonely than before. Years crawled by in similar fashions as Severus began to feel increasingly that the school had become a prison. There were, however, two escapes from his stifling lifestyle.

One was the Defense Against the Dark Arts. Severus had always found the Dark Arts fascinating, and the teacher was one of the few that didn't bore him to tears. No small part of that was Professor Settra himself. He wasn't a tall man, but he didn't need to be. It was the way he carried himself. Tall, proud, straight and upright, he could give the impression he was seven feet tall if he wanted to. He was soft spoken, but his voice carried the intensity of a man who had long ago found a place in his true calling. And he brooked no nonsense from anyone.

"Mr. Snape, if you would please remain behind for a moment after class?" he said one day. "Thank you."

Severus froze in his seat as his classmates rushed out of the room, chattering loudly as the made for the doors. He waited.

"Mr. Snape." Professor Settra walked over to his desk in measured steps. "I wanted to have a talk with you before you went to join your fellow students outside."

Severus thought about the irony of that statement, but held his tongue.

"You're undisputedly the best student in my class. I've heard what other teachers have said about you, and quite frankly, I find it hard to believe." He placed a hand on Snape's shoulder. "I understand," he said quietly. "I was like you once. Few friends, school no challenge, can't find an interest anywhere, right?" Severus nodded. "I know. And I wish I could offer you some advice. But I can't, and I won't try to offer you false hope. I was lucky enough to find my own calling and land a job working with it, but that's a rare chance. Don't expect something like that to happen to you."

Severus nodded again, wondering why Settra was telling him all this.

"But the reason I asked for you to stay is this," Settra said, seeming to read his mind. "You're by far the best student I've had in ages."

"Thank you, sir." Severus didn't believe Settra had asked him to stay just to be complimented. He was right.

"Now, I know my class isn't exactly the most interesting for you-" he held up a hand to forestall Snape's protests. "But I want you to listen to everything I say in class, learn everything I teach." As if he ever did anything else. "Because I've got a feeling you'll need this knowledge one day," he continued. "It pains me to say it, but there's a very good chance that in a few years you'll be using it against some of the people who sit by you in class every single day. You know the story behind Slytherin graduates?" Snape nodded. "Well, I don't know why, but I've got a real bad feeling about this group. Real bad. Be careful, and remember what I said. Pay attention. It may save your life someday." How odd those words had seemed!

His other escape, oddly enough, lay in the dungeons. The only place where Snape ever felt truly at home.

Potions was not an exciting class for him, by no means. Professor Carroay seemed to find his job as unpleasant as Settra found his own pleasing. However, it was not the teacher that lured him time and time again to those drafty stone chambers.

There was a magic for him there, leaning over the simmering cauldron. Not magic as most wizards knew it, but of a kind with the magic of the storm. To Severus, the potions classroom was a place of beauty and information. The ease with which potions turned in his hands did not bore him as his work in other classes did, instead it soothed him. He was unsurpassed in his skill and knowledge when it came to stirring cauldrons, chopping ingredients or heating solutions. Perhaps it was the utter _lack_ of magic that was involved; no potion would work, of course, without the infusion of a witch or wizard's inherent magic, but the process was just that: process. A series of precise steps that lead from one thing to another. Combinations of certain ingredients never failed to reach an expected conclusion under normal circumstances, certain solutions acted thus under certain conditions. It was so simple. So logical.

That, of course, was the reason behind it all. Severus had always been a creature of logic, of steps and processes. A man of science, if science could be used in the world where magic reigned. Whatever the reason, Severus never felt more at home than when hunched over a gently boiling cauldron, or more at peace than with his rather prominent nose stuck in one of the volumes of Life in a Bottle: A Study of Famous Potions and Their Creators. More so, in fact, than at Snape Manor itself.

Ah yes, that was another factor that contributed to making his life at Hogwarts one step up from hell. Home visits were few and far between, and far be it from him to change that schedule. After his initial pleasure at his son's placement in Slytherin, Silias had treated Severus exactly as he always had. That was to say, he ignored him completely.

No matter how hard Severus tried, his father never seemed pleased at _him_. The only thing important to Silias was that his son continue to live out his Snape heritage and see to it that the family name did not die out when he did. Pureblood to the last.

As a result, there were few times during his stay at Hogwarts when he was truly happy. And he never once remembered in any of his years, at school or otherwise, a moment during which he could say he was content.

It wasn't until almost the end of his final year at Hogwarts that someone rescued Severus from the downward spiral that his life had become. It wasn't until he was nearly a graduate that he met the young man who had showed him a life he had never dared dream of, a life in which he was needed, where his skills and efforts were not only appreciated, but rewarded.

"Severus Snape?" The cool, silky voice snaked across the Slytherin common room, penetrating Severus' thoughts and invading his mind. As he put down the book he'd been reading, prepared to lash out at the student who had disturbed his concentration, Severus caught the blue eyes of a young man he remembered. It had been years since he had last seen that measured, calculating gaze, leveled at him from across the Slytherin table at the Great Hall. Though he had not thought about the incident since it happened, nearly a decade ago, a sudden thought sprung into Severus' mind. _He had been the only one who hadn't laughed_.

"Severus, I don't believe we've ever been properly introduced," the young man said with a smile. For an instant, Severus was reminded of the warning Settra had given him once. _You may be using this knowledge against some of your own classmates one day_...

The young man extended his hand. "Lucius Malfoy." His hand felt like velvet wrapped over steel rods in Severus' grip. "I believe I have an offer that just might interest you..."

***

Snape shook his head, banishing the memory to the depths of his mind from whence it came. It was too painful to think about now, too vivid, to real. He knew one day he would have to face the memory again, that one and many more, but that would come later. Right now he was just so tired, worn out from the simple task of keeping his thoughts in focus from one moment to the next.

And right now, he had to find some way of keeping his tongue under the control of his mind, not his heart.

"Professor," he started, but trailed off. What was there to say?

"Go to sleep, Severus. You need rest. We'll talk again tomorrow." Dumbledore stood and silenced Snape's would-be protests with a stern look. All Snape could do was nod. He watched as Dumbledore pulled the curtains around his bed closed and listened to his footsteps recede own the hall, cursing silently as he left. Of all the stupid, thoughtless things to say-

He sighed as he pulled the sheets closer and rolled over in his side. Tomorrow, as they said, was another day. Another day to think things over and try to come to grips with his new life, his new existence. Another day to try and keep the demons at bay while he searched for a way to exorcise them entirely. Another day to heal the wounds in his soul that still burned like storm lightening and bled like a overturned cauldron. 

Another day, and he might be bled dry.

Snape stared at the blank curtains with dry, open eyes. Tomorrow would be a long time in coming.


	5. Challenges

"Severus?"

Snape looked up from his book. Professor McGonagall had poked her head around the door and was beckoning. "Dumbledore wants to speak with you. Something about the Ministry."

"Oh." Snape's stomach lurched. _They want to put me back in Azkaban_, was the first thing that flashed through his mind. He dismissed the thought a heartbeat later; Dumbledore wouldn't let that happen, not after all he went through to get Snape _out_. Still- an unsettling coldness wound its way around his stomach and his mouth felt dry. "Would you tell him that I'll be there in a minute?"

"Try not to tarry too long," McGonagall said as she withdrew and headed towards Dumbledore's office herself. "Ice Mouse."

For a moment, Snape was confused at her parting words. Then he realized it was the password to get into Dumbledore's office. Well, some things still remained the same after all those years, and it looked as if the Headmaster's fondness for sweets was one of those things.

Reluctantly, Snape put aside the book he'd been reading and rose, checking the mirror as he passed.

He had been expecting this to happen for days, actually. Almost a month had passed since his imprisonment and, knowing the Ministry, they weren't content to let things lie. Not unless they could bring it about so that it was a benefit to them as well. Snape knew they weren't finished with him, not by a long shot. _He_ knew they still didn't trust him or Dumbledore; they wanted to be certain he wasn't going to go running back to Voldemort as soon as he learned something useful. Snape sneered as he faced himself in the mirror. Once a presumed liar, always presumed a liar. That's how the Ministry thought, at least.

_Come now, if you were them, you wouldn't trust yourself either_._ Admit it_, a voice in the back of his head whispered. You_ saw how the minds of the Death Eaters worked_._ Those that weren't loyal were to terrified to show it, and _no one_ ever turned themselves in without using information as a bargaining chip_._ You _are _a highly unusual case, you know_.

He cast aside the voice impatiently, smoothing his robes and tucking his long hair behind his ear. The last thing he needed was his own mind telling him he was being irrational. Satisfied that he looked presentable, he extinguished the candles with a wave and a word, and walked out into the corridor.

He did look better than he had just a month ago. At least he no longer put people into mind of a walking corpse. The bruises under his eyes had disappeared and he had filled out some, though he still remained lean. The only things that hadn't recovered under the care and hospitality of Pomfrey and Dumbledore were his hands. Even now they lay nestled in his pockets like twin spiders, long and skeletal. Too many times he caught himself clutching at the folds of his robes as if trying to fight off some unnatural chill, gripping the fabric in his white hands until the very bone ached. It was if they were no longer part of him, as if they were so changed by Azkaban that they were sucked dry of life and warmth. Dementors' hands.

"Ice Mouse," Severus snapped before that last thought could take hold. There were too many nights when he woke screaming, wrenching himself from the dementors' cold grip that found him even in sleep. He wasn't going to let that happen during waking hours as well. Instead, it was another memory that overtook him, one very similar to the present. Only it was a different password to a different door in a different lifetime.

***

"Salazar."

As the hidden door swung open, Severus stepped into the Slytherin common room. _Bloody stupid password_, he thought as he headed towards his new home for the next year._ How much more obvious can you get?_ _Then again, people are stupid_._ Always slow to figure out the obvious_._ Always looking for a catch when there never is one, then missing it when it's bloody well staring them in the face_.

He sighed as he lay down on his bed and closed the curtains around him. He stared up at the dark ceiling, looking but not seeing. It was his third year back at Hogwarts, three years closer to up and outing out of this dreary school entirely. He wasn't certain what he was going to do after he graduated, but anything was better than this. He was so sick of his day in day out existence that he wanted to scream. Snape had long since given up the hope that he would find anything that would offer any sort challenge, but still, he wished for something that would at the least take his mind off the dull monotony that had permeated his life.

The sound of a door opening took his mind off things for a moment as he froze, trying to identify the student who had just entered. Or, as it turned out, students.

"Are you sure no one's in here?" a girl's voice breathed. Severus couldn't place the voice, though it seemed irritatingly familiar.

"No one that's going to care," was the reply. Severus grimaced at the sound of the voice. Ivan Lestrange. Surprise, surprise. And where there was Ivan, that usually meant Anita Falrith.

There was the sound of a robe clasp being undone and the metallic hiss as the curtains around the bed beside him were closed. The pair's breathing became heavier as low moans were interrupted now and then by a quiet giggle. Severus could hear the rustle of bedclothes and rolled over on his side, closing his eyes. When the sounds grew louder and he was no longer able to tune them out, he sat up and crept out quietly, knowing the consequences if Ivan were to find him there.

He slipped through the common room as quickly as he could without attracting notice and headed down the hall. He had half a mind to go and seek company in the Great Hall where he knew there would be a few students who were still finishing up dinner, but the thought of holding conversation with someone like Jake Morrowi depressed him nearly to the point of tears. Instead, he opted to go outside and get some air. The castle seemed stifling, all of a sudden.

As he walked, Severus saw a group of third years playing a pick up game of Qudditch. For a split second, he wished he could be over there, laughing with friends, playing ball without having to worry about what his father would say, or what people would think of him. To be accepted.

He shook his head, inexplicably angry at himself. He didn't need them, and they sure as hell didn't need him. He had always been a loner, why change now? He'd gotten along just fine without them. Yet...

Severus turned and threw himself down on the grass, right at the base of a huge oak tree. He closed his eyes, letting the coolness of the grass permeate his robes. The leafy branches spread so far that his entire body was engulfed by shadow. For a blessed moment, he allowed himself to close his eyes and clear his mind of all his usual worries as he slipped gratefully into a world of his own, away from his bleak life. It was only times like this that made him certain he still _had_ a life. One worth living, at least.

As he lay, Severus found that he was more drowsy than he had first thought. The low droning of insects and soft lapping of the lake soon lulled him into a near sleep beneath the tree. It was good to be where he was. His mind felt clear for the first time in months. He sighed again, but this time it was without the bitterness that had accompanied the sound for so long. If only it could always be like this. It couldn't, and he knew it, but that didn't keep him from hoping. Hope came so seldom to him now.

Time passed swiftly, as it always does when one wishes it would stand still. All too soon Severus found himself chilled and stiff as the sun began to sink behind the castle. With a small groan, he got up and brushed himself off, planning on heading back towards the castle for supper. Before he had gone three steps, something hard, small and awkward hit him full in the small of his back.

"What the-" He spun on the startled first year that had run into him. "What in Merlin's name did you think you were doing?" he shouted at the terrified girl. A voice in back of his mind told him he was being foolish to act this way, but he didn't care. "You stupid girl. Watch where you're going next time. Stupid bloody-"

"Oh shut up!" An older girl strode up to the two of the, taking the young girl by the hand. "It wasn't her fault. You've got no right to be mad at her, you stupid git." She glared at him as the first year buried her head in the folds of her robes. "What's your problem?"

"I-" Severus stood, at a loss for words. Other than to make fun of him, this was the first time anyone had spoken to him in anything more than curt sentences. He was more accustomed to having to fight off malicious teasing or return insults shot at him from his house fellows, or snapping at younger children when they got in his way. Now, he wasn't quite sure how to proceed.

Lucky for him, he didn't have to. The girl spun around and stalked back towards the castle, the younger one in tow behind her, her black braid almost hitting Severus in the face as it whipped behind her. Severus watched them go.

Cursing to himself, he turned and headed back to the castle in a different direction. Stupid git indeed. _Him_ of all people. Huh. He shook his head. He didn't have time to waste thought on a foolish little girl. As he entered the castle, his cloak caught on a protruding stone and he heard the distinct sound of ripping cloth. Cursing again, he tore his cloak free and slammed his hand into the wall in sheer frustration, hissing with pain as the rock scraped his knuckles. Severus glared in the direction the two girls had gone, fuming as he wrapped his bleeding hand in what was left of his cloak, his hopes for at least a decent day shattered on the stone at his feet.

"There. It'll be sore for a few days, but you'll be fine. And next time, come see me sooner." Madam Pomfrey looked sternly at Severus, who was examining his newly healed hand. "Honestly, Severus. For a such an intelligent boy you can be amazingly stubborn."

"Mhmm." Severus was only half listening to the Mediwitch. He flexed his fingers a few times until he was satisfied with their condition. His hand was still sore, as Madam Pomfrey had said, but he could live with that. It wasn't as if it was his work hand. At least, it didn't have to be.

After taking his frustrations out on the castle wall, Severus had gone inside to the Great Hall. While supper consisted of its usual delicious fare, he barely ate. A hard knot had settled into the pit of his stomach and his throat was tight, making it hard to swallow. Eventually, he just gave up and headed off to the Slytherin common room.

He knew what the problem was, of course. He was angry, but this time he was angry at himself. Angry for having let loose even that one small show of emotion in public. Angry at himself for having been weak.

For someone as picked on and as physically lacking as Severus, keeping a tight hold on his emotions was one of the few defenses he had. He could keep the upper hand as long as he controlled what face he showed the world and when. As long as the mask was up, as long as he could make it seem as though nothing could touch him he could at least lessen the amount which his school mates tormented him. Any slip of the mask, any display of emotion would do nothing but serve to give them more ammunition to use against him. And what a display he had given them today! If anyone had seen him, how he acted- he would never hear the end of it. Imagine. Severus Snape in a rage over what a girl had said to him!

He had been so angry that he hadn't even gone up to the Hospital Wing. Instead, he had simply wrapped his hand in a shred of cloth and continued on as though nothing had happened. It hurt, but it wasn't anything he was unused to by this time. He'd gone around like that for weeks, and it wasn't until Professor Settra accidentally brushed up against his hand during Defense Against the Dark Arts that anyone found out. By that time, the scrapes on his hand were red and swollen and infection was setting in. Settra had made Severus go see Madam Pomfrey immediately, threatening to haul him there bodily if he refused.

Pomfrey had fixed him up right quick like, but she could do nothing about the stinging of his pride. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to go and punch the wall again, so in the end Severus carefully kept his thoughts curved away from _that_ train. Still, he was fuming as he left the Hospital Wing.

"You're Severus, right?"

Snape spun at the sound of a voice behind him, hissing as he brushed his bruised knuckles against the wall. "Who are you and what the bugger do you want?" he snapped.

"A simple yes or no would have sufficed." A girl nearly a head shorter stood behind him, her heavy black braid falling over her shoulder. "You always this nasty?"

"If I am, that's my own business," Severus said icily. "Come to tell me off again for yelling at that stupid brat?"

The girl's face darkened momentarily, and she shrugged. "Maybe. Wasn't planning on it, but if that's what you want-"

"Look, what do you want from me? I have things I need to do. If you're that eager to reprimand me further, send me an owl." Snape turned to go, but a hand on his sleeve held him back.

"Fine, I'm sorry, okay?" The girl scowled at him. "I came to see how you were doing. You looked pretty angry the other day, and then I saw Settra threaten to drag you to the Hospital Wing if you didn't go yourself." She glanced at the fading bruises on his hand. "I wanted to apologize if it was because of what I said to you yesterday."

"I beg your pardon?" Severus looked down at her in astonishment. "You want to- apologize?"

"Yeah, I guess I was a little hard on you yesterday. I mean, you were really being a jerk to that poor little girl, but I didn't mean for you to start trying to knock down the castle bare handed." She snickered, but the sound was not unkind. "What ticked you off so much, anyway? It couldn't just have been me."

Severus said nothing. How could he tell her that she and that little first year ruined the first decent day he'd had in weeks? How could he even begin to explain how his frustration completely overran any traces of content he might have felt? He knew she would never be able to understand, so he simply shrugged. "It's who I am."

She rolled her eyes. "Whatever," she said. "Anyway, I'm Julia Johnson." She held out her hand. "It's been nice talking with you."

"I'm afraid the feeling is rather less than mutual," Severus muttered, but took her hand anyway. "Let me guess, Hufflepuff."

"Nope."

"Surely not Gryffindor," he said in mock horror. "They'd know better than to let _you_ in."

"Ravenclaw," she said, sticking her tongue out at him. "Stupid snake."

"Huh. Well, you could have fooled me." Severus barely ducked the blow aimed towards his head. "Hey! It's not _my_ fault the Sorting Hat's getting senile!" This time, her fist caught his ear quite solidly.

"Oops! Sorry." Julia grinned as he shook his head vigorously, trying to clear the ringing from inside his head. "Thought you were quicker than that." She looked at her watch. "Oh no! I'm gonna be late for my tutoring session! I'll see you 'round. Watch out that no one steps on you." She turned and ran down the hall towards the dungeons.

Severus rolled his eyes as he headed back towards the Slytherin common room. "Stupid snake indeed," he muttered. "_Watch out that no one steps on you_," he mimicked as he walked. "Daft birds, all of them. Don't know how she made it in when I got stuck in Slytherin." But as the door leading to the common room swung open, he realized that for the first time in months, he actually enjoyed a conversation with someone other than himself. That came as a bit of a relief, actually, because more often than not it was dangerous for a wizard to be conversing with himself. Either way, he was surprised to find that the constant tension in his posture had eased, and the cold knot that had taken up permanent residence in his stomach had begun to loosen.

Once in the privacy of his curtained bed, Severus allowed himself to smile. Perhaps the day he lost all those weeks ago could be made up after all.

***

Now, standing at the entrance to Dumbledore's office, Snape felt his guts twist again. The feeling was all too familiar; either something bad was going to happen or it already had.

"Professor?" Snape pushed the door opened and stepped inside. "You said you wanted to see me-?" His words trailed off. Sitting there with Dumbledore were three men Snape never expected- or wanted- to see again in his lifetime.

"Severus." Dumbledore nodded curtly, clearly agitated by the presence of his visitors. "You know Bartemius Crouch, Cornelius Fudge and Alastor Moody, I trust?"

Snape nodded. His mouth was so dry he couldn't have spoken if he wanted to. _They're going to take me back-_

"Severus, before anything else, I just want you to know I was against this from the start," McGonagall said from where she was seated beside Cornelius. She obviously found the presence of the three men extremely distasteful. "I don't approve of this nonsense."

"Hardly nonsense, Minerva," Crouch said. McGonagall scowled, clearly distraught at having him address her by her first name. "I'd rather like to look upon it as a necessity. Unpleasant, perhaps, but crucial to the well-being of countless numbers of our people."

"Would-" Snape's voice came out as a harsh croak. He coughed and tried again. "Would someone care to inform me as to what is going on," he managed to whisper. Fear made his voice shake, he clamped down as solidly on his emotions as he had back in his school days. Still, his death-like hands trembled in his pockets.

"Have a seat, Severus," Dumbledore told him. He gestured and a chair appeared where a small table had been. "The Ministry would like to have a word with you." His normally bright eyes were clouded and troubled. Snape shuddered.

Cornelius cleared his throat. "Severus Snape," he began, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "The Ministry believes that your ti- your past ties," he amended, "with Voldemort and his Death Eaters could be of use to us." He looked at Dumbledore uneasily. The Headmaster stared back at him, his blue eyes telling nothing. "And there are some of us who don't believe you have- ah- shall we say _severed_ yourself completely from their company."

Snape felt his insides go cold as he simultaneously glared and trembled at the implications. This couldn't lead to anything good.

"As a result, we the Ministry would like you to act as an undercover liaison with the Death Eaters." Cornelius finished hurriedly, as if he couldn't get the words out and be done with them quickly enough.

For a heartbeat, it seemed to Snape that everything had just stopped. They were all looking at him, some expectantly, some disapprovingly and some, like Moody, smugly. "I-" He stopped, gathering his thoughts together even as he felt his heart grow cold in his chest. "I-" They couldn't be asking what he thought they were, he must have misheard. They had to know what they were asking was impossible. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen," he said hoarsely, "I think I need to step outside for a moment." He turned and walked back out onto the stairway.

Once out of sight, Snape broke into a run down the stairs, bursting out from behind the gargoyle and sending Professor Flitwick flying.

"Terribly sorry, Severus," Flitwick said, picking himself up and dusting off his robes. "Didn't expect you to come hurtling out- what's this? Oh dear..." The rest of his words were lost as Snape had already disappeared down the hallway.

_They can't, they can't ask me to do that, don't they know, how can they, they don't understand, they can't ask that of me, I'd rather die, I _can't.

The endless litany of denial ran through his mind as he ran through the corridors. Each echoing footstep brought back memories of the death, the pain, the terror he had witnessed. And caused. How could they ask him to go back to something like that?

He barely felt the cold of the walls through his robe as he leaned back and slowly slid to the ground, cradling his head in his hands. _I'll die before I go back_._ I swear_.

"Severus?"

Snape didn't look up. "I thought I told you to leave me be," he snarled, fear hardening his voice even as it twisted his stomach.

"Actually, you said 'If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I think I need to step outside for a moment,'" the curt voice replied. "And I don't believe I could ever be mistaken for a gentleman, either in manner or any way else."

Wearily, Snape lifted his head from his arms and glared but was met by a familiar cool stare in return. "Minerva, what do you want?"

As soon as the door shut behind Snape and his running footsteps faded down the stairwell, all five of them sat in stunned silence. Cornelius was the first to recover, clearing his throat and causing them all to jump.

"Well," he said uncomfortably, "I think that went rather well."

McGonagall glared at him. "You," she said coldly, "are a brainless prat. Was there really no other way to tell him? Did you even stop to _think_ about what you were doing, how he might react to something like that? No, Albus," she said, holding out her hand as Dumbledore rose out of his seat. "Let me."

"You, Minerva?" Dumbledore raised a white eyebrow. "I hardly think-"

"Yes, me. He needs something you can't give him, Albus. He needs sympathy, but not coddling, which is what he'd get from you." She rose and went to the door, turning half way onto the landing to glare one final time at a rather sheepish Cornelius. "Then again, thanks to you we'll be lucky if I can find him at all, let alone talk to him." She turned and left, slamming the door shut behind her.

As she hurried down the halls, McGonagall cursed the name of the Ministry in every way possible, stretching the limits of her rather extensive vocabulary. For Cornelius, she came up with some rather imaginative ones.

"Of all the brainless, bloody, _unthinking_ fools," she muttered as she rushed down the hallway, ignoring the looks she got from her fellow teachers. "Bloody well throw it in his face, watch him writhe while you more or less accuse him of still following Vold- _idiot!_" She wanted to take her anger out physically. Preferably on something alive and looking something like a certain Head of Ministry that was currently seated in Dumbledore's office.

"Oh! Filius, I'm sorry!" McGonagall halted as she ran into Professor Flitwick, sending the poor man to the floor for the second time in an hour. "Forgive me, I-"

"Quite all right," the little man said, rather resignedly. "Happens all the time. Don't worry about a thing. Oh, Minerva," he called, as McGonagall resumed her hurried search for Snape. "I believe you'll find Severus down _that_ corridor," he said, pointing.

Without even stopping to thank him, McGonagall raced down the narrow hallway. _Please, please, please let me find him_, she thought frantically. _Merlin knows what he might do in the state he's in_._ Cornelius, you stupid, stupid man_._ Do you want to undo all the work Albus has put into reshaping Severus into something that even resembled a man?_ It had taken days after that first incident in the Hospital Wing before Snape would even _talk_ to anyone. Every time it seemed as though Albus had drawn him out of his desperate silence there was always something that would send him back, worse than before. First was when Madam Pomfrey removed the bandages from the gouges in his arm and he'd seen the Dark Mark, clear as ever, on his skin. Next had been the pair of Aurors who had come at the Ministry's request. Snape wouldn't speak to anyone during that time. And then some careless nitwit had left a copy of the Daily Prophet where Snape could get his hands on it. The front page was splashed with reports of Death Eater activity, including one about a young girl who had been found dead, killed by a hybrid hemlock potion. The article seemed to send Snape into a world of his own, he wouldn't speak to anyone, not even Dumbledore, and he barely ate or drank for days. He simply lay huddled on his bed in the Hospital Wing, sleeping fitfully, often disturbed by dreams that wrenched him screaming from his sleep. Most of them were brought about by his imprisonment in Azkaban, McGonagall was quite certain. But there was something he wasn't telling them, something he kept hidden that worried at him far more than even the dementors.

So lost in thought was she that McGonagall nearly tripped over Snape's huddled form before she saw him. When she did, she cursed Cornelius and the Ministry ten times over.

He sat huddled on the floor, head buried in his arms. Even from where she stood, Minerva could see his thin shoulders shaking with every breath. He hadn't noticed her yet, and she had a feeling that even if he did, he wouldn't have been able to support himself enough to stand and flee. Her heart went out to him.

_No_, she thought firmly to herself as she organized her thoughts in preparation for the confrontation she knew would follow. _He doesn't need pity right now_._ He needs understanding, but if Albus keeps up with the way he's going, Severus is going to come to depend on him too much_._ It's not healthy, not in his state_._ Not with him as vulnerable as he is_.

"Severus?" She said it hesitantly, not certain as to the best way of getting his attention.

The response was more or less as expected, and Snape's hostility made it easier for her to get into what she knew her students and fellow teachers referred to as "battle mode." Still, it was another few tense moments before she could get him to look up, even with a voice sharp enough to silence a room full of rowdy first years. Even then his response was hardly welcoming.

"Minerva, what do you want?"

"Severus-" She paused, transfixed by the stricken look in his eyes. Those black eyes that had once shone with clear intelligence were now vacant orbs, dull and lifeless. The emptiness she saw there cut Minerva to the quick. This was not the Severus Snape they used to know, and she knew that if they didn't get him back soon, he never would be again.

Kneeling by his side, McGonagall wrapped her arms around his bony shoulders and held him close. "I won't say I understand," she whispered as she rocked him as if he were a babe, "because I don't. But please, tell me. Help me understand so we can make _them_ understand. Talk to me, Severus."

For a moment, she thought he hadn't heard her, was ignoring her. Then he looked up, unguarded for one of the few times she'd seen, mouth open as if about to speak. She held her breath.

"What makes you think you could ever understand?" he asked her, voice as cold as McGonagall ever remembered it. Her heart sank as he pulled away and half stood against the stone wall.

"I don't think anyone could understand, not if they weren't there," Snape continued, staring at his long hands. His voice was low, monotonous, as though the story he was recounting was not his. "It can't be explained. How can you tell someone what death feels like? It's not as if they even care, not them. They don't want to understand." The bitterness in his voice was almost tangible. "They just want someone they can use with a clear conscience so they don't have to lie awake at night, having sent someone innocent to something that amounts to death as sure as a knife on the vein. So they want me." Snape laughed, a hard, biting sound with no mirth in it. "You heard him up there, you heard Cornelius. They don't even believe I'm not with him anymore. What do they want, for me to tear my own bloody arm off? I nearly did just months ago. I told Dumbledore-" his voice shook as he spoke, "I told Dumbledore I didn't want them to think he was wrong about me, and they _do_. What do they want me to do about this?" he near shouted, tearing the sleeve of his robe, revealing the pale skin bearing the damning Mark. "What do they want me to _do?_"

In spite of herself, McGonagall flinched at the sight of the grinning skull and turned away surreptitiously. Snape, damn his eyes, noticed.

"Even you," he said softly, almost sadly. "Even you can't stand to look at me. I said it then and I'll say it now: maybe I should have died."

McGonagall flushed with both anger and shame at the memory of having spoken almost those exact same words to Dumbledore the night Severus had returned. The heat found its way into her voice as well, surprising them both with its vehemence.

"So then Albus is just wasting his time on you, is that it?" she snapped, standing and glaring down at Snape. "Fine. I'll let him know and we'll just let the Ministry have you. If there's no hope of you pulling your life back together here, then I don't know why we should waste our time. They can throw you right to the Death Eaters for all I care, and good riddance." McGonagall turned and began to walk away, holding her breath in prayer as she went. If she had read him wrong, if she had miscalculated a single instant-

"Wait."

McGonagall let out an inaudible sigh of relief. She turned back to Snape, one eyebrow raised inquiringly.

"Please," he whispered, half rising from his place on the ground. "Wait. Don't-" His voice caught as if though he were choking back sobs. "Please don't go." He shook his head in confusion. "I don't know what to do anymore, what to think. They want to send me back because they think I'm still one of them, and if Voldemort kills me, so much the better. But-" McGonagall watched as he searched out the words. He looked so young at that moment, so vulnerable.

"But I'd rather die than go back," he half sobbed. "If I go back- I did things while I was a Death Eater," he told her, staring at the ground. "Things I wouldn't even forgive myself for. If I go back- I _don't_ want to end up doing those things again! I'll die before I do. I _killed_ people, Minerva, and now they want to throw me right back into temptation. Then they'll have their reason to prove Dumbledore wrong. I'd kill myself before I'd do those things again."

"But will you go back to Azkaban?" McGonagall asked softly. She saw the brief flash of terror in Snape's eyes as he glanced up at her and knew she had struck a nerve. She pressed on, praying that what she was going to say was the right thing.

"I don't think Cornelius cares whether you live or die," she said bluntly. "But Bartemius and Alastor are going to want you straight back in Azkaban if you refuse. You're willing to die, but are you willing to sacrifice the rest of your life to prison? Think it through, Severus. Don't be hasty to make foolish choices."

Silence hung between the two for a brief moment as McGonagall watched and waited. She was treading a very thin wire; one wrong step could send Snape off the brink into madness, or worse. And he might very possibly take her with him.

"I don't know what to _do!_" Snape cried. "Gods help me, I don't know. I can't-" He collapsed suddenly, burying his head in his arms as his entire body was wracked with sobs. "It's too much," he whispered, "too hard."

McGonagall swooped down on the young man and wrapped him in her arms, holding him close in the folds of her robe. She didn't say anything- there was nothing to say. She simply held him, hoping that would be enough. For a long time, neither of them said anything, the silence broken only by Snape's strangled sobs. Shortly, they grew softer and less violent until they ceased altogether. Even then, Snape made no move to rise and McGonagall continued to hold him. No one save terrified first years would recognize this side of Hogwarts' strict Transfigurations Professor, the side reserved for a homesick youngster or traumatized older student who needed a sympathetic ear and a comforting hand.

Or for an ex-Death Eater who had to make the most important choice of his entire life in a matter of moments.

She held him long after the sobs had receded and even the shaking of his thin frame had stopped. She held him, feeling his warm tears rapidly cooling on the fabric of her robe, until she felt him take a deep breath and released him when he straightened.

"I'm sorry," he whispered hoarsely. "I didn't mean to- just fall apart like that."

"Go upstairs, Severus," McGonagall said rising to her feet and helping him to stand. "Go back to your room, let me deal with the Ministry." She gave him a Look and pointed, becoming once more the strict, no-nonsense teacher Hogwarts knew best. "Go. Up. Now," she commanded, fixing him with a stern gaze. "I have a few bones to pick with Cornelius myself," she added. "That man- honestly!" She suggested that Fudge do something that would require a great deal of physical exertion, outside help, and even then might well prove to be a physical impossibility. She was relieved to see Snape manage a weak laugh, despite the worry that still creased his brow and darkened his eyes.

"I think that's considered cruelty to sheep, Minerva," he said, straightening his robes. "You might want to suggest it, though."

"I just may," she said. "Until then, just leave the worrying to me. Merlin knows I've had enough practice at it. I'll take care of Fudge and the rest of them, you go up to the Hospital Wing and have Pomfrey give you something to help you sleep. You look like you need rest." She watched him as he left, concern in her normally clear eyes. There was still something bothering him, something he was keeping from everyone, possibly even himself. No amount of pressing would get him to reveal it, of that she was certain. They would have to trust that he would let them know soon, before it ate him up inside. McGonagall prayed that the time would not be soon in coming.


	6. Loyalties

"Severus...."

The hissing voice sent chills down the back of the dark robed figure as he knelt before the rough hewn slabs of stone that throned the man he knew first and foremost as Master. He felt his body tremble in a manner than had nothing to do with the chill of the stone floor. He was acutely aware of the two hooded men who had stepped up to flank him as he bowed, of the hundreds of eyes that burned into him from all sides.

"Master, I return to you," he said simply, knowing the futility in further explaination, no matter how elaborate. There would be time enough for that later if his Master so chose. If not, there would be no excuse in the world that would save him even for a second from the horrors he would face.

"So we see." The dry snap of fingers and the two men beside Severus grasped his arms and lifted him to his feet. "So often it is that the stray lamb returns to the fold. Yet also that same lamb does run the risk of destruction upon its return, for the rest of the flock grows envious and will, in time, tear the unfortunate stray to shreds." Snape heard the rustle of robes and one of the wizards jerked his head back sharply so that he was staring at the figure seated upon the throne. He fought back a dry sob as he remembered a time nearly half a year ago when he was held in the same position, but that time by a man named Alastor-

"One must wonder not only why the lamb has strayed," the voice from the shadows continued. "But also why it returns. Could it be that it found itself lost and helpless in the world beyond, shunned by those who it would have called friend? Or perhaps there is another reason, that the lamb has instead turned wolf..."

"Master, I-"

"Shh, now is not the time for words, my young lamb. For even if the lamb had but lost its way in the dark, it is up to the shepherd to make certain that it shall never make the same mistake twice." Again the soft whisper of black cloth as Snape felt the tip of a wand trace his jawbone. He braced himself for what was coming, knowing it was useless.

The pain hit him like a wall of stone, crushing him down and forcing him to his knees. The two wizards at his side released their grip and he fell, twisted and bent to the hard stone floor. His blood was molten in his veins, a fountain of iron and razor burning him from the inside out. His skin alternately burned and froze until Snape thought he would go mad as he writhed upon the ground. Blood flecked his face the the stone floor from where he bit his lip nearly through, but all this time he made no sound. To cry out now would be an admission of guilt, a weakness that would not go unnoticed by the man who brought him to the realm of agony. If he could just keep his silence, just a few moments more- but the pain was so bad, so bad, getting worse with every passing heartbeat until he felt his entire soul would burst, an agony he had never dreamed of, worse then the fires of hell, it was so bad, it was too bad-

And then it stopped.

Snape lay panting on the floor, alternately gasping and fighting back sobs. Still, before even the aching in his limbs had died away he crawled across the floor to press his lips to the hem of Voldemort's robe.

"How many more would you take, my young lostling?" The voice was deceptively soothing, almost caring.

"As many as you see fit, my Master." Snape forced himself to say the words, not knowing if the games he played now would be the death of him. He trembled at the thought of another onslaught of the pain but held his tongue. Even the torments of the Cruciatus were better than going back to Azkaban.

"Where have you been?"

The simplicity of the question caught Snape off guard. Rarely, if ever had he seen his Master offer such an open opportunity for explaination to a Death Eater who had done some wrong. But with a quickness of mind that had been both the awe and envy of student and teacher alike, he orginized his thoughts.

"Hogwarts," he said, rising to his knees before the stone slabs. "I left the night we burned the Muggle village, when the girl-" His voice caught, but he forced the words past the lump in his throat, knowing that the slightest hesistation now could bring his death. "When the girl was slain by the potions I brewed." Snape thought he saw Voldemort's eyes gleam for a fraction of a second. "I ran, I don't remember what I was thinking as I ran, but it seemed so perfect to me, for that one instant I knew how I could be of greater service to you than I had ever been before. I had to make it perfect, make it real. So I made as if to flee your ranks, ran to London where I was found by the Ministry."

"How did you know they wouldn't kill you right off and be done with it?"

Snape allowed himself a small smile, though it hurt to stretch his bleeding lip. "Dumbledore, of course. The old fool remembered me from my school days. He wanted to give me another chance, I staked my life on the hope that he would convince the others. He did not believe that even a traitor would beg for the dementor's Kiss." Snape didn't have to shudder as he spoke his next words. "Even still, I spent three months in Azkaban until they decided." He dared to look up at the man seated before him while still humbled on the ground. "This I did and would willingly do more for you, my Lord, my Master."

"Continue."

Snape licked his dry lips. "Dumbledore offered me a place at Hogwarts. But the Ministry would never let a matter like this out of their hands. They wanted to send me back here, to you. A spy. It was exactly as I had hoped."

"The spy that turned its colors twice is tenfold more dangerous than a one time traitor." Voldemort's smooth voice flowed over the ears of all assembled as he studied Snape through half closed eyes. "But what of the snake who only feigns his markings? The viper dyed to resemble a grass snake will still bring death through its fangs."

Bowing his head, Snape knelt even lower on the floor. "Though I made it seem as if I turned against you once, I swear to you, Lord, I never faltered in my loyalty. If I am to be held at fault for anything, let it be only that I acted impulsively without first consulting someone who knows more of these things than I." Snape held his breath as he waited for Voldemort's response.

Silence hung between the two men as the rest of the gathering looked on. The tension built up around them as the surrounding Death Eaters held their collective breath. Suddenly, Voldemort made a sharp gesture with his free hand, never taking his eyes off Snape. The doors to the chamber flew open, and the entire assembly moved as one body to rise and leave. In a matter of moments, the only two people left in the room were Snape and the man looking down upon him from his regal, barren throne.

"What you say is true," the man said, turning his wand over and over in his hands. Snape repressed a sigh of sheer relief. "Yet, I cannot let such a blatent disregard for my orders to go unpunished, can I? It was indeed a devious plot as you tell it, yet you erred, as you said, in your impulsivness. Such a thing could have led to more disaster than you could ever imagine. You must understand why such risks are not tolerated under my rule, for now and forever."

"Yes- Master." Snape could barely whisper around the fear the constricted his throat. The first wave of pain hit him, drawing a red curtain over his eyes. As he he suffered silently there on the ground, Snape could barely make out Voldemort's next words.

"Cunning, brave little lamb. I have heard your silence once already, you have nothing more to prove to me. We are alone- I would not think less of you if you chose to use that voice of yours..."

Severus' screams could be heard for a long, long time.

***

"Oh, Merlin- tell me it was worth it, Albus. Tell me it was _worth_ this!"

From somewhere beneath the waking realm, Severus Snape heard McGonagall's voice and thought for a moment that she was crying. That was odd, what would she have to cry over? Term didn't start for another few months, so it couldn't be because of a student. Maybe someone died?

For a while longer, he floated in and out of the strange level of consciousness that wasn't truly sleep, but farther still from wakefullness. It was almost pleasant, this lack of feeling, the lack of caring that came with his odd state of limbo. While he was there, nothing had to bother him if he didn't let it, nothing could pull him back into the living world if he didn't want to go. Somewhere in the back of his consciouness, a stray thought told him that there was pain back there, that while he was in this suspended state nothing could hurt him. 

He couldn't be hurt anymore.

He tried, he tried so hard to bring himself deeper, farther from the pain that awaited him when he awoke. But there was something out there, something that wouldn't let him go.

"Severus."

_No_, he thought, _no, go away_._ Don't bring me back up, not yet_._ Let me rest here, where it's peaceful_._ I don't want to come back just yet, just let me sleep_. There weren't any dreams here, not like the nightmares that plauged him when he usually slept. He just wanted more time to sleep, more time away from the dreams that haunted him every time he closed his eyes.

"_Severus_." The voice was more insistant now. He felt a hand shaking his shoulder, interrupting his stasis.

"No," he muttered, trying to shrug the hand off. It just shook him harder. "Too tired, let me rest-"

"Not a chance," Albus' voice said. "If you sleep now, Severus, you may not wake up again. And I'm not going to lose you to _him_ again." A cool hand took one of his own as McGonagall spoke. "Please, Severus. Wake up. Come back to us."

Slowly, reluctantly, Snape allowed himself to drift upwards towards the surface of his dreaming world. Light shone red through his eyelids and the smell of soap and something sharp and clean penetrated his thoughts. He opened his eyes slowly, wincing as the bright light of the Hospital Wing hit them.

"Severus?" Snape turned and saw Dumbledore sitting beside him, worry creasing the already wrinkled brow. "Severus, can you hear me?"

"Y-yes." Snape blinked and took in his surroundings. He was laying on one of the hospital beds back in Hogwarts. Pomfrey was busying herself at the sink, her back turned to him so he couldn't see her face. McGonagall sat stiffly to his left, holding one of his thin, slender hands in her own, stress and worry drawing her features tight. "What happened?"

"I was hoping you would be able to tell us," Dumbledore said. "When you came back to us, you were a complete wreck. As soon as we got you up to the Hospital Wing you passed out. We thought we'd lost you then, and you gave us no few scares while you were healing. Do you remember what happened? Anything at all?"

Snape shook his head and immediately regretted it. Pain exploded in his brain as bright lights danced before his eyes. He moved to raise his left hand out of sheer reflex and found that it was bound tight to the side of the bed.

"You were moving in your sleep," McGonagall said quickly, before Snape could either ask questions or panic. "Poppy had to tie you down so you wouldn't injure yourself further. You-" She grimaced. "You dislocated your left shoulder and somehow managed to break a bone in your wrist. Those were the major ones. At least, those were the ones we could see."

Snape closed his eyes as the memories began to return, sweeping over him like so many poisonous parasites. "Cruciatus," he whispered. He felt McGonagall's hands clench over his own, heard Madam Pomfrey's horrified intake of breath. "Too many times- I lost count. I told him what you said to, Albus. He thinks I'm still one of his followers."

"Then why this?"

"Because I acted on my own, or so I said. He doesn't like someone else coming up with a better plan than his own. And- to make an example." Snape shuddered at the memory. "Before I left, he had two of them hold me, they took my arms while he cast it one last time. I think that's where I hurt my arm, must have wrenched it out of place while I-"

"That's enough, Albus, Minerva." Madam Pomfrey's voice cut through Snape's memories, brought him back to the present. "He needs to rest." Her eyes fell disaprovingly on Dumbledore. "I don't approve of this, Albus. I don't see what's so important that you have to send this boy out there to have that done to him."

"Yes you do, Poppy," Dumbledore said wearily. "You don't want to admit it, but you understand. We all make sacrfices in this war."

Pomfrey sniffed. "Be that as it may, I still don't approve. Out with you both now, I don't want you worrying this boy yet. He'll be better in a few days."

As Dumbledore and McGonagall left, Snape closed his eyes once more. A few more days until he recovered, until he was well again.

A few more days until he was sent once more into the jaws of the serpent.


	7. Admissions

Severus Snape stared at himself in the mirror as he adjusted his robes over his clothing. The cold and damp of the dungeons were at the point where he had taken to wearing Muggle clothes beneath his robes to ward off the chill. He adjusted his collar and straightened the sleeves of his crisp black shirt. Even his clothing was impeccable; his sense of style at least, was as sharp as his mind.

_Foolish bird_, the voice in the back of his head whispered. _Vain raven_._ As if anyone is even going to see what you wear beneath those robes_._ As if anyone is going to care_._ Why waste your time?_

How true. Snape sneered at his reflection in the mirror, pushing back his long, greasy hair. Over the years he had garnered a rather vicious reputation. Slytherin snake, slimy bastard, greasy git. Yes, he had heard them all, heard the whispers when his back was turned, saw the notes get passed, the rumours started. He knew, and he wondered whether the ache in the pit of his stomach was because he cared too much, or because he was afraid. Afraid that he wasn't able to care about anything anymore.

It had been years since Dumbledore had brought him back to Hogwarts. Years since he had taken up his new tasks as spy, returning again and again into the ranks of Voldemort and his Death Eaters. True to her word, McGonagall had returned to Dumbledore's office and dealt single handedly with all three men, Crouch, Fudge and even Moody, who had wanted Snape back in Azkaban as soon as his usefulness ran out. Even now Snape was uncertain as to just how McGonagall had been able to talk down Fudge and convince them all that the ex-Slytherin Death Eater would be of more use to them without threat or provocation.

_Probably told them I'd rather turn myself in as a traitor to Voldemort before I went back to Azkaban_, he thought as he pocketed his wand. _Not far from the truth, either_._ I've used that killing curse so many times and often wondered if it would work if I cast it on myself_._ Better that than returning to the dementors_.

Somewhere along the lines he had come to terms with his new existence. No, not quite. He had learned to accept it, had become quite good at it, actually, but he had never come to terms with it. Not a day went by that he didn't see the faces of the men and women he had helped to main, to torture and to kill. And every troubled memory was accompanied by the knowledge that he would eventually return to play out the part of the very man who had done these things. He knew he was no longer the same person; though the Dark Mark still stained his arm with its damning leer, the Death Eater that he had been died the night he had run from the horrors of Voldemort's orders.

It had taken quite some time before Dumbledore was able convince him of this, and even longer until Snape was able to look upon his scarred arm without a tremor of fear that its hideous face would call him back.

"You ran because you were repulsed by what you saw, by what you did," Dumbledore had told him. "If you had truly the heart of a Death Eater you would never have felt that way. If you were truly a coward then you would have kept silent, for no few followers of Voldemort serve him out of fear. And if you weren't truly certain of your loyalties to us, then you would never have placed yourself in the danger of returning as spy."

Snape refused to let himself believe in his own sincerity. "I agreed because I was afraid, because I would do anything before I went back to Azkaban."

Dumbledore had leveled those cool blue eyes at his own and asked: "What was it that the dementors left you with back in Azkaban?"

"Her." Snape shuddered. "The girl who died by my potions. I kept hearing her scream, kept seeing her die-" He stopped as he realized the implications of what he had just said. Dumbledore had nodded and smiled. "The dementors rob you of every thought or memory that bring you happiness, leaving you with nothing but your worst fears and greatest nightmares. In your case, the worst memory you could have been left with was the vision of the child you helped to slay. You're no more Death Eater, Severus, than I am."

That had been years ago. So much had happened since then, including the death of the old Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, requiring Quirrel to take his place. That had been two weeks before the start of the new term, and after the shuffling and reassignment of the remaining teachers, Hogwarts was left with a gap in the Potions position.

_Dumbledore raised a few eyebrows when he assigned you to teach_, the annoying little voice mused as he straightened the papers and books on his painfully neat desk. Though the classroom was located in the dungeons, Snape kept everything in impeccable order so that even as the spiders wove their traps in the corners and across the stoppered bottles, every container down to the most base ingredient was lined up strict as a military regiment. He permitted no clutter down in his small part of the castle, nothing was laid out that was not strictly necessary.

_Then again, at least the general public was spared the knowledge of who would be teaching their precious children_.

At Dumbledore's request, Snape's dubious record was kept secret from the rest of the wizarding world. As a result, only about a dozen people in the world knew of Snape's previous profession.

_So now you can be shunned and avoided as the bitter, sadistic Potions Master instead of the bitter, sadistic Death Eater_._ Makes you feel loads better, doesn't it?_

"Shut up," Snape whispered, slamming a vial of dragon's blood down on a shelf. "The last thing I need right now is a bloody narrator in my own head."

"Severus?"

Snape whirled, his hand diving into the pocket of his robes for his wand before he realized it was only Professor Sinistra. He took a deep breath as he released his wand. _Got to take a break until I cool down_, he thought to himself._ I'm hair triggered as a result of going back_._ Thank whoever's listening that the school term starts today and spying comes in second to teaching_. It wouldn't look good if Snape kept disappearing at any given hour when he was supposed to be teaching. That was how rumours started, and at this point in time a rumour was all that was needed to bring Snape's reckoning.

"Dumbledore sent me to tell you that the Welcoming Feast is about to begin. I didn't mean to interrupt anything- I heard you talking with-"

"Thank you, I will be down in a moment," Snape said crisply. Sinistra looked startled at his abruptness, but ducked out. Snape grimaced. He did _not_ need other teachers to hear him arguing with himself. They avoided him enough as it was for being Snape the one-time Death Eater without thinking he was Snape the crazed Slytherin who talked to himself.

_Come on, now_._ If they all avoided you, at least you'd have some peace-_

Snape spun and stormed out, slamming the door behind him without even bothering to respond.

The Great Hall was as noisy as he ever remembered it. Students were everywhere, talking, laughing, chatting and gossiping. Those who hadn't seen their friends since the end of last term were rapidly catching up on new relationships, new spells and new adventures. The noise made Snape's head spin, but at least it drowned out that irritating little voice.

He took his place at his usual seat, scowling at no one in particular and everyone in general. It seemed to him a long time before Dumbledore stood and silenced the gathered students and longer still until the Sorting began and it was quiet enough to think again.

The seemingly endless list of names droned on. Snape barely even looked up when a student was sorted into his own House, Slytherin. When he had become Potions Master, Dumbledore had placed him as Head of Slytherin House as well, for lack of a more suitable teacher. As it was, Snape had been the only Slytherin out of the entire resident faculty.

Suddenly, a name caught his attention.

"Potter, Harry!"

Snape looked up so fast he heard something in his neck snap. Ignoring the pain, his eyes darted over to the Gryffindor table where he caught a glimpse of a too familiar face adorned with a set of bright green eyes. At that same moment, the Dark Mark on his arm began to burn as it had when Voldemort wished to call his Death Eaters to him. Gripped with a sudden horror, Snape jerked the sleeve of his robe up, baring the hideous skull, fearing the worst. The last time his scar had burned so the night had ended badly. He hadn't ended up in the Hospital Wing that time, but rather in Dumbledore's office after having clawed his way through a series of nightmares. As he broke eye contact with the boy, however, the burning faded away. He glanced up again and saw that the boy was grimacing and rubbing at the oddly shaped scar that marred his forehead. Snape looked back at his arm, but the Mark was slowly fading back to its dormant state. Odd.

He had known the Potter boy was coming to Hogwarts, Dumbledore had mentioned it in passing. Somehow, though, it had slipped his mind with all the goings on that had been taking place recently. And all because of the boy.

Snape knew the story, of course. Everyone did, but he had a unique perspective on it all. After Voldemort's disappearance that directly followed the death of James and Lily Potter, Death Eater activity had escalated, then declined sharply. The remaining Death Eaters had gathered immediately at Lucius' orders, Snape included, to discuss what was to be done. Without any information as to the whereabouts of their master, however, there was little they could do. They had gone away unsatisfied and uncertain.

At least now Snape could breathe easier knowing that no summons from the Dark Lord would be imminent. The Death Eaters still gathered every once in a while, but it was mostly by invitation to the Malfoy Manor for a little of what Lucius liked to call "fun." More often than not Snape declined these invites but dared not persist in extended absence.

Now Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, was here at Hogwarts, seated not thirty feet from where sat the one man who carried a hatred lasting almost as long as he had, but who also owed him more than he could ever repay.

And if there was one thing Snape hated, it was to be in anyone's debt.

"Our new- _celebrity_."

Snape's silky voice practically dripped with sarcasm and contempt. It was the first day of the new term and Snape found himself with a double Potions class: Gryffindors and his very own Slytherins. It was going to be a very interesting year.

He had begun with his usual "welcoming" speech- it hadn't changed since the first time he delivered it. He gazed with unhidden scorn at the young students who laughed and talked amongst themselves- none of them would ever understand the true magic that lay behind the curtain of steam rising over a boiling cauldron. They wanted magic they could cast and see the immediate results. Not one of them saw the potion making for art it truly was, and none of them ever would. He was wasting his time here.

Class began in earnest as he drilled the first years in basics of potions, making certain to humiliate Potter by asking him questions no first year would know. Except maybe that irritating Granger child.

A band of painful pressure had constricted around his temples before the class was more than half over. If it wasn't Potter's irritating presence generated simply by _being_ there, it was Granger's know-it-all bossiness and her need to prove it to others or Neville Longbottom and his uncanny knack to have everything he touched go wrong.

Longbottom. There was a name Snape remembered all too well. He hadn't been there when the Death Eaters got hold of Frank Longbottom and his wife but he'd seen the results first hand. He heard now they resided at St. Mungo's. He admitted to himself that he wouldn't have had the need to be so hard on the poor boy if it wasn't for the unpleasant memories he brought with him. As he snapped for the countless time at the terrified boy, the voice in his mind returned.

_You're being irrational, and you know it_. _It's not _his_ fault you can't sleep at nights_._ You just want someone on which to take out your own fear_.

Snape brushed the voice aside impatiently. It was right, of course, even Snape would admit to that, but his pride kept him from changing his behavior. It helped that the boy was unbelievably clumsy, it at least gave Snape half a reason to direct his anger on the hapless first year.

Between the hopeless antics of several first year students and the persistent nagging of the voice in his head, Snape was more than ready to down one of his own potions by the time class was dismissed. It didn't matter which one.

As he leaned over to clean up a puddle of armadillo bile, the direct result of a scuffle between two Slytherin and Gryffindor girls, Snape was only minorly surprised to find his thoughts drifting back to the green eyed boy who had caused him so much pain and at the same time saved him from more than he could ever imagine. 

Harry Potter.

The rational part of his mind knew he was being unreasonable, that Harry was no more to blame for Snape's anxiety than Neville was. But every time he looked up and saw those awkward glasses, the unruly hair, he was overcome by the memory of a voice calling out to him, a warning in the dark. The voice of his most hated rival and the man who saved his life.

That was what stung the most. The wounds of his body could not compare to those of his pride. James Potter, the boy whom everyone looked up to, whom everyone admired. The boy whom Snape had hated more than anyone in the wizarding world. Brave, handsome and popular, James was everything Snape could never be. The only area in which he could ever hope to even match him was intelligence, for when it came to cool, practical logic, Snape was the undeniable master. Even so, it hurt all the more when Potter received the accolades that should have been going to _him_.

Some small part of Snape longed to join the group of friends who called themselves the Marauders. He watched with mixed envy and annoyance each time they carried out one of their notorious pranks, knowing both that they were being childish and at the same time that with his help, they could have achieved unrivaled fame in the halls of Hogwarts' mischief-makers. But Snape was a Slytherin, a world apart from the Gryffindor boys. What was more, he was a Snape, one of many in a long line of known Dark Wizards, a boy to be feared and shunned from all sides.

Yet Potter, to Snape's immense horror, showed once again his selfless, honorable nature. Snape, rejected and alone once more, took to following the Marauders on their dubious haunts, waiting for the moment when he could report them and their rule-breaking antics. Then Black, damned dog, managed to convince him that he had figured out the way to uncovering Lupin's secret and sent him into what he must have known was certain death. But James Potter, Hogwarts' hero and soon to be Head Boy, warned him away, saving him from death at a werewolf's claws.

It had been the final straw. Now Snape owed Potter his very existence, a debt he could never hope to repay. Rather than turning his attitude towards the Gryffindor, this debt seemed to only deepen the resentment Snape harbored. Potter, the damned honorable boy treasured by nearly all of Hogwarts and top of his class had saved Snape's life.

And Snape hated him for it.

_Crash_. A bottle slipped from Snape's long fingers, falling to the floor where it shattered on the smooth stones. Snape stared at the pieces of glass for a long moment, heedless of the gunk that was spreading out in a fetid puddle at his feet. Slowly, wondrously, he picked up a shard of glass and held it, gazing though it into the warped light that lay behind it. He gripped it tightly, so tightly the razor edge bit into the heel of his hand, sending a trickle of blood unheeded down his wrist and into his robes.

He stared at the shard for another long moment, fear, anger and hatred warring on his face. Then, with a cry of inhuman despair, Severus Snape dropped the shard and fled.

"I didn't deserve what he did."

Snape sat stolidly in a chair by the window of Dumbledore's office. As he stared outside, he heard sounds of tea being poured behind him and accepted the steaming mug automatically, without looking back. Outside the day was crisp and clear, the sun just beginning to set behind the castle bathing everything in warm, golden red light. A chill breeze blew through the window, stirring Snape's hair and robes with its mid-September kiss.

"Didn't deserve which? His saving you that night, or his burdening you with the duty you now have?"

"Both. Either. I don't know and I don't care." Snape put his mug down and rested his head in his arms on the sill of the window. "I hated him then because when he saved me; I owed a life debt to the boy I hated most. Now I'm not so certain. Perhaps I hated him because deep down, I knew I wanted to die." He closed his eyes, breathing in the light scents of fall. How he had longed for the quick death of a werewolf's bite all those months in Azkaban instead of the slow wasting that had taken hold of him.

"No," he said at last. "I don't think so. Not then, not as d- did in Azkaban." Snape cursed himself mentally, he had come too close to stating his true thoughts, that he longed for death even now. He glanced at Dumbledore, but the old Headmaster did not seem to have noticed his slip.

"I remember when I heard they died," Snape continued hastily. "I- didn't know what to think, really. Except, the first thing that truly registered was that now that James was dead, I was cleared of the life-debt." He stared back outside and the swiftly darkening grounds. "Selfish to the last. Not two days dead and all I can think of is that I don't have to hate him anymore. What does that say about me?" He asked it rhetorically, but somewhere in his heart he hoped that Dumbledore might answer, might offer him some solace or at least the absolution that he denied himself. But no such reply was forthcoming.

"Something went wrong, though, didn't it?" Dumbledore asked softly, sipping his tea. "You weren't cleared from the debt, as you put it, were you?"

"No." Snape shook his head bitterly. "No, even his very death continued my persecution. He saved my life once, but I was unable to save his. Dammit, Albus, I might even have _helped_ to kill him."

"Impossible. You were already here when Voldemort found them. You were working for us-"

"_I_ might not have been there, but I left things there, Albus! Potions, schemes, information- I helped Voldemort more than you could ever imagine! God, no matter how hard I try or how far I run I will _always_ be part of them, don't you understand?" Snape clenched his fists so hard he was afraid to move them for fear that something would snap. "I helped to kill the man who saved my life."

Silence hung between the two men for a time where the only sound that could be heard was the soft rustling of the branches from the Forbidden Forest. Dumbledore cleared his throat quietly and ventured to speak. "This is where the young Potter boy comes in, isn't it?"

"Yes." Snape hissed the word as if it were a bitter sound to make. "Yes, that damn boy." His black eyes snapped. "The debt didn't die with James as I thought, but increased tenfold instead. Now, because I couldn't save his father's life, I must always guard the boy's." He took a long draught of tepid tea. "It's a bitter pill to swallow. God above, I _envied_ that man. He had everything I could never have. And then- then he had to go and save my life after all I did to them, after I was determined to rat them out every chance I got. The man was always so damn _noble_." His jaw clenched as he stared out the window, snarling into the darkened grounds.

Suddenly, he stood, nearly spilling what remained of his tea onto the floor. "Thank you for your time, Albus," he said stiffly, striding towards the door. "It's late. I'm sure you have other things to attend to other than one wayward teacher."

"Severus?" Dumbledore stood and waved the chairs back into their original positions. "You know my office is always open if you need me."

"Yessir."

"And Severus?"

"Sir?"

"Try not to dwell too much. Things often have a way of working themselves out if we let them."

"Yessir." Snape turned and shut the door behind him without another word. As he made his way back to the dungeon, his mouth twisted into a sneer of self-loathing. _Things often have a way of working themselves out if we let them_.

_Oh, but you don't know the half of it, Albus_, Snape thought as he descended the stairs down to his office. _I hate that boy more than you could ever imagine, and it has nothing to do with his father_. He had come to this realization soon after the Welcoming Feast as he retreated to his chambers for the night. The flare of his scar that night had made it all so painfully clear.

_I hate you, Harry Potter, because you are more than your father was, because you are everything I hated about him and more_._ I hate you, Harry Potter, because you are the only one who survived Voldemort's touch, you came away unscathed, something I could not do_._ That scar is just a scar, it holds no hidden past, no memories you wish you could forget_._ I hate you, Harry Potter, because you are the Boy-Who-Lived_.

_I am the man who died_.


End file.
